Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  I saw the outline of his broad shoulders coming up the stairs. His eyes were searching for me, wild and hungry with the pain of too much loneliness. I ran into his arms and we clutched at each other’s hair and clothes, and I pressed against him so hard that I almost disappeared into him and the tears poured out of my eyes and every part of me it seemed. If that moment had lasted for more than a few minutes I probably would’ve died from too much happiness. Is there such a thing?

  I never saw Tony cry before, not really cry, until he looked upon his daughter with the knowledge that she couldn’t look back. For several days he held her like she was an infant and not a three-year-old little girl. He kept gazing into her face and passing his hands across her eyes over and over. I know what this is. I used to do it myself hoping she’d blink at just the right moment and give me that little bit of hope to comfort me for a couple of hours until I was forced to accept her blindness all over again.

  Almost every night at sunset, Tony and I go down to the beach. We lie on the sand without clothes, and it’s the most wonderful feeling. The breeze is cool, but the sand is still warm from the sun. We play like children, naked and free and we make love the same way until we are too tired to move. Now in our new apartment, we fall asleep in each other’s arms like we used to. To open my eyes and see him by the open window fixing our morning coffee is like waking up in heaven every day.

  Just yesterday, I sneaked away to the church again. I had to go back to thank God for answering my prayers and bringing my husband back safe. I lit a small white candle at the altar like I always do and stayed for only a few minutes watching the flame. It gives me such peace to see it waver and dance in the darkness. I have only one prayer left: that Lucinda’s blindness be cured. God heard me, because at that moment the windows lit up and filled the church with streams of colored light when it had been dark for more than an hour.

  Don’t laugh; you know I’m always looking for miracles and if they don’t find me, I’ll find them, even if they’re in the headlights of a passing car.

  Alicia

  19

  SUMMER WAS ONCE AGAIN UPON US, AND MAMI HAD BEEN bustling about the house with nervous anxiety for almost a week. Visitors were coming from Miami and it was important that the house be in perfect order. She hired a window cleaner and carefully selected blooms from the garden to arrange throughout the house. The bathroom was equipped with new brightly colored guest towels and bowls of potpourri. Mami and Abuela cooked into the night making croquetas and stuffed potato balls, and Papi readied the pit outside to roast the pork.

  Mami was at her happiest when preparing for guests. She’d thrown dinner parties as Papi advanced in his career and she enjoyed those, but with Cuban friends and family she rolled up her sleeves and dove into the process with abandon. She played her favorite danzón on the stereo and gyrated her hips to the music as she dusted. She could be persuaded to have a glass or two of wine and enjoy the sunset out on the porch even though it was Wednesday night and there was still so much to do before the guests arrived.

  “Do you remember your cousin, Juan?” Mami asked me.

  “Of course. I was fifteen when we left. I remember everything.”

  “He’s an attorney in Miami. Quite successful I hear and he’s coming out with his mother, your Tía Carlota, for some kind of conference.”

  Mami proceeded to inform us of all the recent gossip about the family. I listened with half an ear while Papi read the paper not even bothering to appear interested. Mami spoke vehemently about Juan’s foolishness for having joined a Cuban Brotherhood association aimed at hastening Castro’s demise. “I don’t want him talking about that nonsense in my presence. All it does is make me upset and get my hopes up for nothing.”

  Juan and Tía Carlota showed up that Friday in a black limousine from the airport. Tía Carlota wore the Cuban uniform of success—an elegant beige linen suit with a designer handbag and pounds of gold jewelry dripping from her hands and neck. Her red-toned hair (I remembered her as a brunette) was stiffened with hairspray and it almost scratched my cheek when I gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek in greeting. Juan was twice the size I remembered him, contained within the tailored perfection of an expensive gray suit. But he had the same flush about him that I remembered when he spoke about his life and his work with the Cuban Brotherhood.

  Mami put hands over her ears, although still smiling. “Please, Juany, I don’t want to know.”

  Tía Carlota shot Juan a stiff look and he obliged as the good son that he was. It was no secret that he took care of his mother (his father had died of cancer soon after exile) and that she’d been able to resume if not surpass the lifestyle she’d had in Cuba because of him. Even so, she hadn’t lost her authority as a mother.

  We sat in the living room amongst the blooms of the garden, sipping wine and nibbling on Cuban delicacies when Juan leaned over, straining his impressive girth, to speak only to me. He addressed me in Spanish, and I realized how long it had been since I’d spoken my native tongue with someone of my generation. Marta and I had been speaking English with each other more and more, and now I spoke Spanish only to my parents and grandparents. Speaking Spanish with Juan made it feel as though what we had to say was more important somehow.

  “Have you heard from Alicia?” he asked.

  “We keep in touch through letters.”

  “Then you know she’s a Communist and that she married some Communist who’s literally brainwashed her.”

  “I know she loves Tony very much. They have a daughter, Lucinda.”

  “I heard she’s blind.”

  “They’re hoping for an appointment at an eye clinic in Havana.”

  Juan popped a potato ball in his mouth and chuckled as he chewed. It seemed like he was swallowing all joy and hope along with the potato. “They’ll never get in there,” he said and took a swig of wine to clear his throat. “It’s well known that the better clinics serve the needs of foreign dignitaries and high-ranking party members. Ordinary citizens aren’t at the top of the waiting list.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Juan was confident about his information. He lived in Miami, and with his ear to the ground and his heart fully engaged in the struggle, was steeped in the latest news. We were removed from such concerns in California where Latino issues focused on problems with migrant workers from Mexico and bilingual education in the inner city. I wanted to argue otherwise, but I had no ammunition and Juan had quite an arsenal available to him.

  “You can help her, Nora.”

  “How?”

  “Convince her to apply for a visa. I’m sure I can do something on this end if she does.”

  “She won’t leave, Tony. She won’t leave Cuba.”

  We could’ve been in Tía María’s backyard. “Just play one game of baseball with me Nora,” he’d say, squeezing his chubby hands together as if in fervent prayer.

  “You always throw the ball too hard,” I’d respond.

  “I promise I won’t this time.” He’d toss his glove at me and I’d try it on. It was about three sizes too big, but I’d give in because I was the closest thing Juan had to a male companion at the moment and because I knew he wouldn’t give up until I did. We’d play in the yard until the shadows lengthened and engulfed us, until I could no longer ignore Mami’s complaints about getting dirty, or until Alicia came and lured me into something more interesting.

  “She’s the only one of us left over there,” Juan added, perhaps remembering that I always gave into his pleas.

  “She is?”

  “Of our group she is. The only others who stayed were the old people.”

  “Like Tía Panchita.”

  Juan furrowed his fleshy brow and glanced at his mother who’d been listening to our conversation without meaning to look like she was. She mirrored his confused expression and turned back to Mami who was rearranging the croquetas and potato balls on the tray.

  “Tía María said she’d call you,” Carlota said.
/>   “About what?” Mami asked, dropping a potato ball on her foot.

  “Panchita died two weeks ago. They say she died while smoking a cigar even though the doctor told her she couldn’t smoke cigars, and that the best thing that happened to her was the shortage of tobacco in Cuba.”

  Mami’s eyes watered as she leaned back, with the potato ball still resting on the tip of her brown pumps. “May she rest in peace.”

  “She was a good woman,” Tía Carlota added with a solemn nod of her stiff auburn head.

  “She cared about the black people like they were her own flesh and blood.”

  “Sometimes to the detriment of her own people…”

  “If she’d guided Alicia differently she’d be free and not in the grip of this communist lie…” Juan offered.

  “They say that before the revolution the plantation would’ve gone much better if she hadn’t given her black friends control of it.”

  “They say Lola’s the one who got her smoking every day like she did and that Panchita spent money she didn’t have to maintain their cigar habits.”

  Mami picked the potato ball off her foot with a napkin and carefully wrapped it up. “She may not have been very smart, but Panchita was a good woman.”

  “She was a good woman,” everyone chorused.

  The doorbell rang and Mami opened the door to find a smiling Greg standing on the threshold. Mami proudly introduced him as my novio which I still wasn’t too sure I liked hearing. After a robust handshake with cousin Juan he sat in the chair next to me. Although we’d had sex a half dozen times already, he wouldn’t dare kiss me or even place a hand on me in the presence of my family. I ignored him, still upset and confused about Tía Panchita’s death.

  I stood up, knocking a glass of red wine off the table and onto the white carpet. Mami gasped and Greg hurriedly began to blot the stain with his napkin.

  “Tía Panchita was a great woman. She was the only one who didn’t turn her back on Alicia when she married Tony,” I declared to a bewildered group.

  “Calm down, Nora,” Mami said.

  “You’re criticizing Tía Panchita because she helped black people, because she loved Lola better than most people love their own sisters and brothers…This is why the revolution happened in the first place.”

  Mami stood up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, foolish girl.”

  Tía Carlota cleared her throat. “Maybe we should leave, Regina. Nora’s upset.”

  Mami held out a firm hand in her direction. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, taking a step toward me. “You watch what you say, young lady. While you’re in this house, you show respect.”

  I marched out the front door and heard Greg’s strained explanation as I left. “She’s very stressed with her job hunt…She’s been getting upset easily…” I could picture his face, red as the stain on the carpet he was blotting.

  “She’s spoiled,” Mami said. “She thinks she’s smarter than everybody.”

  “She definitely has the García smile,” Papi said, peering into the crib.

  “Don’t be silly, José. She can’t smile yet.”

  “I’m telling you, I saw her smile just a minute ago when you weren’t looking.”

  We’d grown accustomed to Mami and Papi’s good-natured arguing since the baby was born. It seemed their entry into grandparenthood had momentarily caused them to forget about how to get along. Mami could talk of nothing else but the baby and how Marta was doing and whether or not she and Eddie were dealing well with parenthood. Anyone would think that Marta and Eddie had contracted an exotic and incurable disease that required everyone’s constant vigilance. And for the first time in years, Papi was coming home early from work so he could accompany Mami on her daily visit before the baby was put down for the night. We’d hear him whistling a tune as he came in through the back door with a smile from ear to ear.

  But Mami’s joy over Marta’s domestic good fortune wasn’t enough to distract her from the disappointing developments in my life.

  “I don’t understand why you let that nice young man go, Nora. He had a good job and very decent sensibilities. Even more than that, I’d say he was quite in love with you.”

  I wondered if Mami was suffering from premature dementia when she brought the subject up as if we hadn’t already talked about it at least twenty times. Several weeks earlier I’d spoken to Mami and Papi separately and explained that I was no longer seeing Greg. Papi accepted the news with a blend of surprise and curiosity and then made a simple statement that reflected his acquired American ideals more convincingly than his evolving preference for American football over baseball. “As long as you’re happy, Nora. That’s what your mother and I want for you more than anything.” He thought for a moment. “If you haven’t told your mother, I suggest you do so as soon as possible. She’s grown quite fond of Greg.”

  Mami stared at me as if I’d told her I’d become an astronaut and was leaving for the moon the next morning. “Was this your decision?”

  “Yes. I just didn’t feel comfortable with him, Mami.” I could’ve told her that his touch had begun to repulse me and that the last time we made love I found myself thinking about a back pain I’d developed and the dreadful fact that I’d plucked out my first gray hair the day before.

  She smoothed out Papi’s shirt on the ironing board, but the crease between her brows deepened and began to glow pink. “I hope you thought carefully about this. Greg’s a good man. He has a good job and a very promising career and you can’t find that every day you know.”

  “I know, Mami.”

  “And he understood things…”

  “Yes, Mami.”

  “About our culture and respect and…I’m telling you right now, I think you’re making a big mistake.” She began to iron furiously. “Oh, I know the American way. Parents aren’t supposed to interfere in their children’s lives. They’re just supposed to smile and nod and say, ‘That’s fine dear. Whatever makes you happy dear.’”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what Papi said.”

  Mami stopped ironing and glared at me. “Your father’s a man, and he doesn’t understand that the older a woman gets the fewer her choices.”

  “For goodness sake, I’m barely twenty-four-years old.”

  She nodded and resumed her ironing as though she’d been ironing for twenty years without a break and couldn’t possibly stop now. “When I was twenty-four, I was married, I had two children, a house, and a servant to help.” She looked back up at me from her task, her eyes round and accusing. “What do you have?”

  “A college education.”

  “A lot of good it’s done you,” she muttered. “You don’t even know a good man when you see one.”

  Dear Nora,

  I’m sure you must know by now that Tía Panchita is gone. I thank God that Tony was here when it happened because I know I wouldn’t have survived it alone. Before she died, I took her to Güines one last time. The bus was three hours late and the road had so many pot holes I thought it was going to fall apart piece by piece, but Tía didn’t notice. She just looked out the window through her big glasses and sighed the whole way there. It actually seemed she was getting better with every mile we got closer.

  When we finally arrived at the house, she didn’t say a word. The roof over the porch had partially caved in and crushed most of the front stairs. I tried to talk her out of climbing up, but she insisted so we sat on a crate as I prayed the roof wouldn’t fall in and kill us both. We looked out upon the forest, the only thing that hasn’t changed.

  She’d hardly spoken all day, but at that moment she said that this was the only place she could look out at the world and understand it. “When I sit here in my place, I know who I am,” she said.

  Later she tried to persuade me to let her spend the night right there on the porch. It took a lot of arguing, but finally she understood it was a bad idea or maybe she was too tired to keep arguing. She fell asleep on the bus, and when
we got back to Havana she was gone.

  I still go to church when I can. I haven’t seen the elderly ladies for months, so I sit in the corner by myself and pray until my heart runs dry. Mostly I pray that Lucinda will be given her appointment at the eye clinic soon. Tony tells me it’ll be any day now because party members have priority and he’s been invited to join. He believes in the revolution as much as he ever did. He reads his books and listens to Castro’s speeches on the radio as if it were food that grows scarcer every day. He wants me to read to him sometimes when he’s tired, but I hardly listen to the words coming out of my own mouth.

  Before, Tony could say things had to get worse before they got better, and I believed. He could say capitalism is the religion of the rich and powerful, and the pure heart of socialism will triumph in the end, and I believed. He continues to say these things and I listen because I know he needs me to listen, but I no longer believe.

  We walk along the wide boulevard of the malecón every Sunday with Lucinda between us. I look into the eyes of others doing the same, walking past buildings that were once sparkling and beautiful and are now like enormous tombs haunted by hungry rats. The sun has become a bare glaring lightbulb that accentuates the ugliness of our lives. Only at night does pretending hold any comfort. I look at the lights blinking on the malecón and remember. Was it all a dream, Nora? Did we ever laugh together on the beach without a care in the world, certain our lunch would be ready with plenty left over for the servants to take home? I could feed my family for a month with the food I left on my plate. I could live for a day on the crumbs that fell to the floor.

  Forgive me for complaining, but one of the few comforts I have left is to know that you’ll read these words and understand me as no one else can. I know you’re thinking that I’ve become one of the desperate people, but I assure you my sadness no longer consumes me like it used to. Strangely enough, it has become my strength as it reminds me that I can no longer get lost in fanciful dreams if I hope to survive. I don’t know if I’m growing up or simply getting tired. Perhaps a bit of both.