Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  “By the way, there’s no reason to tell your grandmother what happened here today,” he told us, “She’ll only get very upset and worry for no reason.”

  We needed no convincing of the need for secrecy. We could well predict our grandmother’s reaction, and we were quite familiar with her particular brand of worry. It was the kind that made the world stop until the worry was finished. And it usually involved complicated promises to various saints who made her cut off all her fingernails and eyelashes, or never wear lipstick again. Perhaps this time our eyelashes would be cut, and we couldn’t risk the possibility of never wearing lipstick. We’d already chosen our colors for when we were old enough. At the very least, we’d never be allowed to go swimming with Abuelo again, of that much we were sure.

  2

  IT WAS A MYSTERY TO ME HOW THE NUNS AT EL ÁNGEL DE LA Guarda School in Havana walked about without making a sound. One might steal up behind you, and you wouldn’t know until it was too late. Not that we had much to hide, and there was little trouble to get into except when one of the older girls was occasionally caught wearing lipstick. The sisters would march her straight to the bathroom to wash her face, and it seemed that she was redder than her lipstick for an entire week. That was the extent of our sinfulness.

  Nevertheless, we filed into the chapel for prayers every morning at ten o’clock sharp to confess our sins and pray for forgiveness. Most of the other girls disliked chapel time, and I pretended to dislike it too, though actually, it was my favorite part of the day. I loved the way sweet incense drifted about in hazy clouds rising along multicolored streams of sunlight that filtered through stained glass windows high above. Hundreds of small white candles wavered at the bare feet of saints, their wax dripping like liquid lace as they carried their smoky messages to heaven. All the sisters, even the quick ones with eagle eyes, hung their heads low as they whispered their prayers with steady precision, lips hardly moving in quick spasms of half-formed words.

  I was particularly fascinated by the Stations of the Cross carved in white stone that hung over the closet confessionals. I gazed at the depiction of Jesus hanging with his arms outstretched as he looked up to heaven, asking God to forgive all the sinners. I thought of Abuela and her promises. Would it be wrong to ask Jesus to help me learn how to swim? Perhaps if I made a promise to him right now He’d fix it so I could go to the beach every day and practice. I could promise to cut off my hair like a boy’s and give my new skates to my little sister, Marta. I could promise never again to ask Beba questions about the African saints; but surely this was asking too much? Our maid Beba was the most fascinating person I knew. As tall as Papi, and with shoulders just as broad, she had a deep golden voice, and laughter that could entice the sun to shine brighter. She told amazing stories about the black people who lived in the country and worshipped African spirits like Ochún and Yemayá. Because of her religion, she always wore white: white dress, white shoes, white stockings, even a white handkerchief. Mami told her it was OK if she dressed this way as along as she didn’t bring any of that Santería business into the house. The thought of never talking to Beba again, about what I knew she loved most, brought tears to my eyes. And as I wiped them away I caught Sister Margarita watching me from the other side of the chapel. I immediately dropped my head. Interrupting prayer for anything at all was forbidden.

  Sister Margarita was one of the most important and feared nuns at the school, and she rarely had time to talk to any student individually, addressing us in large formal assemblies instead. As we were filing back out of the chapel, she touched me on the shoulder and ushered me into a small vestibule away from the others.

  In the semi darkness her round wrinkly face looked down on me. It was as sacred and fragile looking as the old Bible they kept behind glass in the library. A shaft of light that came in through the half open door illuminated fine dark hair sprouting over her lips, lips that were smiling when she should’ve been preparing to reprimand me for my misbehavior. I braced myself.

  “Why were you crying during prayers, Nora?” I was surprised that she knew my name.

  I could recite the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, the Act of Contrition, and list the Ten Commandments and Stations of the Cross without blinking an eye. If she’d asked me to tell her about any of those things I could’ve answered confidently. But how could I tell her I was sad about the thought of not asking our maid about Santería?

  I said the only thing that came to mind, the only thing that might save me and my family from the ultimate disgrace of expulsion I knew would surely follow. “I was sad because of what happened to Jesus. It must’ve hurt really bad when they put those nails in his hands.” My face burned, and I thought I might start to cry again.

  Sister Margarita smiled a knowing smile, as if that was exactly what she expected me to say. She bent her head closer to mine so that her dark robes brushed my cheek. “You know,” she whispered and I smelled the aniseed on her breath. “We’re called in many ways. I sense that a religious life may be in your future. Have you ever thought about that?”

  “A religious life?”

  She nodded gravely. “Yes, Nora. Have you ever thought about being a nun?”

  My heart beat so fiercely that I thought I might have a heart attack. Was there a chance that Sister Margarita would sequester me to some secret chamber where I’d be forced to sign my life away on a ready-made contract from heaven? And how did a girl become a nun? I hadn’t really thought about it, even though I’d been surrounded by nuns all of my life. Surely this was the way it happened. Right here, right now.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, Sister Margarita.”

  “I was about your age when I received the calling, and it scared me a little too.”

  “Yes, Sister Margarita.”

  “I think I’ll talk to your parents about it.” She placed the large hands that she kept tucked under her robes on my shoulders. “I am right about you, aren’t I?”

  I braced my knees to stay standing beneath the weight of her hands and took a deep breath. “Yes, Sister Margarita.”

  I lay on my bed staring up at the ceiling. My parents were devout Catholics. We went to mass every Sunday even when it rained as hard as a hurricane and the windows rattled in their panes. My mother looked like the Virgin Mary herself, in a black lace veil that draped over her shoulders as she lit many candles with a long tapering matchstick. I knew her prayers were for me and Marta and all the people she loved, and she let me light one, maybe two candles of my own. We followed all the Catholic rules like not eating meat on Fridays and making the sign of the cross whenever we passed a church. And Papi and Mami always agreed with the nuns. When they said I should take piano lessons, they agreed. When they said I needed a tutor for math, they agreed.

  A holy life—what did it mean? I couldn’t go to the beach ever again or learn how to roller-skate fast down hill without falling. I’d never wear lipstick and high-heeled shoes with smooth stockings. Instead I’d walk along darkened corridors, with hands hidden and head lowered, praying constantly as I practiced how to walk without making any noise. And I’d take baths in the dark just in case I saw my body by accident, because everybody knew that nuns weren’t allowed to see anybody naked, not even themselves.

  There was a soft knock on the door. I knew it was Beba wondering why I hadn’t yet asked her to prepare my afternoon snack.

  “What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you hungry today?”

  “No. I don’t feel too good.”

  “I heard,” Beba said, opening the door wide and narrowing her eyes to a comical glare. “Your mother said you were faking something this morning to get out of going to school.”

  I turned away. It was easy for Beba to make me smile. All she had to do was stare for a while with mock seriousness. It worked every time, but any temptation to smile vanished when I remembered my dilemma.

  “OK. Let’s see if you got a fever.” She placed her large hand on my forehead and I clo
sed my eyes, comforted by her touch. Everything seemed better when Beba was around. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and her solution to most problems involved a good dose of laughter accompanied by something sweet and delicious to eat. The only things Beba took seriously were her religion and politics. When she talked about Batista her eyes rolled in their sockets so hard, I was afraid they’d get lost in the back of her brain somewhere. She hated him with a vengeance and didn’t mind who she told about it. Luckily for her and for us, there weren’t any Batista fans in our household.

  She removed her hand from my forehead and placed it on her ample hip. “Well, you don’t got a fever. I’ll make you some tea anyway. Maybe then you’ll eat a little something.”

  Beba left and I clutched my pillow. When I became a nun, Beba wouldn’t be there to make me tea or take my temperature. Nuns had to do all that for themselves.

  Papi arrived home from work at the usual hour, just past seven. He sat in his chair with the evening paper until Mami called us all for dinner. I knew that sometimes Papi wasn’t as agreeable as Mami, and there was a slight chance that if Sister Margarita talked to him alone, he might not agree that I should become a nun. But Papi and Mami rarely went anywhere without each other, and it was a sure thing he’d agree with whatever Mami thought because he loved her so much. He couldn’t stand to see her upset even for one second. He told her she was beautiful all the time and ran down to buy sugar cane juice or fresh guava whenever we heard the little bells and calls from the vendors on the street. She’d just flutter her eyelashes at him, and he’d jump off his chair and rush to the elevator before the vendors made their way down the street.

  He even told her she was beautiful on the day she tried on the polka-dot two-piece bathing suit. She stretched those two pieces of fabric so hard I was afraid they’d snap like rubber bands. When she was finally into it, her cheeks pink from all her hard work, Marta giggled and I stared at her in horror and pleaded with her not to show Papi.

  “Why shouldn’t I let your father see me? I had two children with him.”

  “Because you don’t look like those ladies on TV, Mami. Maybe he won’t love you anymore.”

  Mami ignored my warning as she evaluated her plump pale body in the full-length mirror. She looked like bread dough that had risen too far out of the pan. I grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the mirror and toward the bed where she’d discarded her dress. There was no doubt in my mind that her best physical attribute was her lovely face with large dark eyes and long eyelashes that curled just right at the corners like delicate fans.

  “Put your dress back on, Mami. You look really pretty in it.”

  She snatched her hand away from me. “Don’t be silly.” Then she marched straight out to the living room where Papi sat reading his paper. Marta and I followed her wiggling behind into the living room.

  “Well,” Mami said in a seductive voice, as she struck a bathing beauty pose. “What do you think?”

  His eyes opened wide and he let the newspaper drop to the floor in a heap. “You’re an angel, Regina. A beautiful angel.”

  “Not exactly the young girl you married. I’m afraid these two babies changed my figure a little bit.”

  “You’re more beautiful now than ever, my love.”

  Marta and I stared at each other in utter disbelief. This was yet another confirmation of Mami’s amazing powers. All she had to do was look at me with those piercing eyes to know what I was thinking, especially if I was thinking something bad. And all she had to do was wink at Papi and smile a little to make him think whatever she wanted. The only people who had more power than Mami were the nuns, and this was the problem.

  I hovered about the other side of Papi’s newspaper waiting to be noticed. He lowered the paper and motioned for me to come closer so he could plant a firm kiss on my forehead. “How’s my girl?”

  “Fine, Papi.”

  “Will your mother be home soon?”

  “Yes, she’s visiting Tía María, but she’ll be home soon.”

  He returned to his paper and I learned against the back of his chair and studied the dark gloss of his hair, the matching polish of his shoes. The gold watch Mami gave him for Christmas the year before peaked out beneath his white-cuffed shirt.

  I walked around to face him. “Papi?”

  He grunted without looking away from his paper.

  “Do you think that priests and nuns are always right?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Nora. Right about what?”

  “You know, like about what to do in life?”

  He lowered his paper again, intrigued. “That’s an interesting question. Now that you mention it, I think that’s exactly what they’re there for—to help us live better lives. The answer is yes, they do know about what we should do in life. Absolutely.”

  I dodged Sister Margarita for the rest of the week, but everywhere I turned it seemed her brown steady eyes were hunting me down and trying to capture me into another moment of mysterious understanding. In the chapel, my head hung lower than anybody else’s, and my lips moved rapidly in constant prayer. Glowing streams of rainbow colored light might have swept me off the bench, but I wouldn’t have so much as blinked. The Stations of the Cross could’ve come to life, dancing and singing all around me, and I wouldn’t have missed a bead on the rosary.

  I began to feel some relief by the end of the week. I’d walked past Sister Margarita in single file twice without her noticing me. Being the head nun, she had many more important matters to attend to than my conversion to a holy life. I was convinced that the whole matter had been forgotten and by Friday my appetite returned.

  “It certainly looks like you’re feeling better,” Beba said as she served me an extra piece of guava paste and cream cheese. How could I not? I had my life back. Alicia and I could dream once again about being nightclub performers with feathers in our hair and long tail capes. Anything was possible.

  3

  AFTER CHURCH ON SUNDAY WE ALWAYS WENT TO MY GREAT aunt, Tía María’s house for lunch. I always looked forward to this, but never more than on this Sunday when I was still rejoicing in the glory of my escape from nunhood. All the family would be there, cousins, aunts, and uncles who gathered for the weekly feast of arroz con pollo and brazo gitano made by Tía María. More than anything, I looked forward to seeing Alicia and telling her about my near miss with a fate worse than death.

  As the adults sat outside on the porch playing dominoes, talking over each other, laughing, and occasionally raising their voices about the “plundering Batista supporters” and the need for “democratic elections,” we’d sneak off and wander about the big house, hiding in wardrobes filled with old clothes and pretending we were eluding an evil man who was trying to kidnap us. Marta followed us around with no idea that we’d cast her in the role of the evil bad man or witch. When she finally figured it out she’d start bawling at the top of her lungs and several adults would come to her rescue, with Mami leading the pack. If Juan, our oldest cousin was around, we’d allow him to lead us in a rousing, yet confusing game of baseball that he was happy to play with his girl cousins because he always won.

  Alicia and I were hiding from Marta under the porch when we overheard Mami. “José, do you remember Sister Margarita?”

  “I believe I do,” my father replied. “She’s the sister with the mustache.”

  “Seriously now, she called me yesterday and said she wanted to talk to us about Nora.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  I clamped my hand tight over Alicia’s mouth. “Did you hear that?” I asked her.

  She nodded and I removed my hand. “Are you getting in trouble?” she whispered.

  “Worse than that. They want to make me a nun!”

  Horror registered on her face. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But Sister Margarita thinks I should be a nun, and she’s going to tell Mami and Papi.”

  “How do you become a nun?”

  “They se
nd you to a special nun school where they cut off all your hair and fingernails and eyelashes. All you do is pray and light candles and dust the statues of the saints.”

  We crept out to the far end of Tía María’s backyard and crouched behind her biggest rose bush to think about what we were going to do. This was a real problem that required a real solution, and the adult nature of our discussion quickened my pulse. We almost sounded like our parents on the porch when they talked about the government problems in tones that alternated from exuberant to resigned.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Alicia said, as she tossed a stone from one hand to the other. “You have to run away. And it has to be today…before you go home.”

  Alicia and I had fantasized about running away for years. We’d join the circus and learn how to balance on the high wire and ride elephants like they were ordinary horses. We’d walk along the railroad tracks and live off of figs and bananas, our favorite food. We’d build a raft and go anywhere in the world we wanted, starting with New York, where we heard everything was bigger and brighter and better.

  “Don’t worry,” Alicia said, sensing my fear. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure I will. You need company.”

  Marta eventually found us crouching behind the rose bush. She sensed there was something different about our play and began to whine and beg to be let in on our secret, even after we’d banished her and threatened to feed her to the sharks next time we went walking on the malecón. She crept up one last time with an offering in hand: cookies hastily wrapped in a paper napkin. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, I felt sorry for her and noticed her large brown eyes were swimming in tears.

  “Our parents will be worried when they can’t find us,” I appealed to Alicia. “After a week, Marta can tell them why we left.”