He snorted as he selected a smaller saucepan for the milk. “I swear, I don’t know how you put up with them. Lord knows, you’re some kind of saint.”
My answering snort almost escaped, only just turning into a short laugh at the last possible moment. “I hardly think so. So—” I propped my elbows on the table, watching him work. “Were there any interesting demands tonight? Any visitors of note?”
“Just some crazy woman wanted me to make her crawfish étouffée. When Becca told her they wasn’t in season yet, she asked well, couldn’t I just make it without the mudbugs?”
As we laughed, comfort settled over my shoulders, ever so slightly loosening those tight knots that held my muscles captive on nights like tonight.
But perhaps … not tonight.
CUBA REBELS KILL HIGH CASTRO AIDE
Bombs Rock Havana
R. Hart Phillips
The New York Times
December 1, 1960
* * *
Three
December 1960
“The hell I will.”
The crack of skin against skin echoed throughout our small kitchen. My fists clenched, I stared at my mother through vision blurred by tears. Anger? Shock? Pain? Who knew. And how they didn’t fall, I had no idea.
“Habla con respeto.”
“Tell me why I should.” I refused to speak in Spanish. It would be seen as a sign of acquiescence and I didn’t want to give even the slightest indication they might win this battle.
“Because it’s the way of things. You will respect your family’s wishes and you’ll do as you’re told.”
“Somewhere along the line, Mamá, you seem to have forgotten I’m no longer a child.”
“So long as you live under our roof, you are our child and you’ll behave in a manner befitting your heritage.” She gestured with hands no longer soft and white and delicate, since the task of keeping the house now fell primarily on her shoulders. Even rough and reddened, their beauty was still readily apparent, long and aristocratic, her diamond wedding rings, which Papi had refused to allow her to part with, glittering in the harsh overhead lights.
“What heritage? We have no such thing here.” Not without effort I unclenched my fists, tried to relax and get her to at least see, for God’s sake. “All we are now are working class people, like thousands of others, trying to survive. I know how it bothers you, that Carlito has to attend Columbus on scholarship, but remember, it is my paycheck that helps make up the difference in tuition and keeps him from suffering the burden of hand-me-down uniforms and secondhand shoes. For us to have the occasional steak, instead of picadillo yet again. Does none of that earn me at least a modicum of honor or respect as an adult or the right to make my own decisions about my life? What there is of it?”
Mami shook her head, the light catching the silver-white strands scattered through her dark curls. Strands that had multiplied to the point where it was almost an equal distribution between silver and dark. A stark realization that hit with such suddenness, it left me more than a bit lightheaded.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking I don’t understand how difficult this has been for you, m’ija, but really, in the end, how is what we’re asking you to do so very different from what you’d planned for your life?” She looked around at the worn pots and pans, the battered stove and refrigerator that had come to us thirdhand—or perhaps it had been fourth—at the curtains that remained limp because gently starched window coverings now fell under the aegis of frivolous nicety rather than absolute necessity, and shaking her head, added with a resigned sigh, “Bueno, if things were normal.”
And still … even with that acknowledgment—the closest she’d come yet to admitting out loud that our lives were irrevocably altered from what they’d been—that she could still expect this of me? After everything that had happened? Cuban women were known for their solid and clear-headed pragmatism, but this was utterly beyond the pale. Did she not understand how much I still hurt?
“How can you even say that? To me? It’s not at all the same. There’s no possible way it could be. Can’t you see, Mamá—things aren’t normal. There is no such thing here—not the way you want it to be.” I slammed my palms down on the worn yellow Formica of the kitchen table. “It’s not about what I planned. It’s …” I shook my head, trying to free it of the images, swallowing past the heavy beating of my heart that overwhelmed my chest—constricted my throat until it felt as if it was lined with sandpaper. “If only … if we’d—” I gave up, sinking into the nearest chair and squeezing my eyes shut—trying to forget.
Knowing it was impossible.
“It’s true you’re an adult, Natalia.” Abuelita’s agreeable voice prompted me to open my eyes. As she approached, her expression was calm … pleasant. Too pleasant. “After all, you’re nineteen and as you say, a valuable contributor to the household. So as such, I will speak to you as an adult.” As I held my breath, she drove the knife in the final inch. “It's been nearly two years. No one is asking you to forget, but don’t you think it is time you stopped daydreaming like a little girl and wishing for things that will never be?”
My jaw clenched for a long painful moment, streaks of light crossing my vision in a blinding flash. “I might say the same for you,” I finally ground out. “For all of you.”
Silence reigned in the kitchen then, the only sounds the gentle bubbling of the pot of frijoles negros cooking away on the stove and the faint rise and fall of voices coming from the small television in the living room where Papi and Carlito were staying out of it. Far better and easier for them to let the women deal with the issue of my future while they kept their attention resolutely focused on the flickering images of Beaver and Wally and their idealized American lives with their perfect lawns and pristine homes and crises that could be solved with reasonable, measured conversation, and in less than half an hour, to boot.
Difficult to believe we all lived in the same country.
Mounting tension combined with the heavy silence as Abuelita crossed the kitchen to stand beside my mother. Individually, they were formidable enough, even now, but the two together? They were banking on that, I knew. That in presenting a unified front, they would be able to counter any argument I might use, any objection I might raise.
Except—
Even they could not counter the reality of what our lives had become. No matter how hard they tried to pretend otherwise. More importantly, they had no way of knowing how I truly felt. They had absolutely no way of knowing what lay beyond the shell of what I presented to the world. How I fought to keep the rage banked so that I could function. Each day, forcing myself to feel less and less because numb had to be a better alternative than helpless fury eating one away from the inside.
“It has been nearly two years,” I said softly, my fingers tracing the futuristic silver designs adorning the tabletop. “Nearly two years since that bastard stole the island. Since—” I stopped, swallowed hard against the tears, because if I started now, I might never stop.
“Since then, nothing is the same, but still, you all insist on pretending everything is all right when it’s so obviously not. Papi working as a clerk in a law office. You down on your knees scrubbing the toilets. Abuelita having to cook every single day.” My gaze rose from the table, meeting each of theirs in turn, silently daring them to contradict me. “Tell me, how is my marrying some boy whose family is in our same situation going to change any of that? Furthermore, how could you even begin to imagine I would even consider such a thing?”
Their faces remained calm and implacable. Finally Mamá said, “There comes a time you have to accept certain things, Natalia. It is insurance. The same way that our collective sacrifices so that Carlito can obtain the same education he would have had at home is insurance.” She took a deep breath and smiled faintly, as if it were all settled. “When we return—”
“Nothing will be the same.” To my own ears my voice sounded disembodied, each word drenched in anguish.
“Why do you refuse to accept that?” Were they really that far into a fantasy land? Peter Pan had had a better grasp on reality than my family and all of their friends. “You are all positively drunk on this idea that we’ll be able to return and pick up our lives precisely where we left off. But no matter how many plans Papi and his cronies hatch over cigars and Sunday barbeques, or how many candles you and Abuelita light after Mass, it will never, ever be the same. Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend?”
I stared from face to face—Mami and Abuelita; Papi and Carlito, who’d finally been moved to join us, drawn, no doubt, by the fact that my rising voice was in all likelihood obliterating the polite, neutral tones of Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver who would never dream of raising their voices. They had no reason to do so. Nothing in their placid, black and white American lives to feel such passion and drama over.
Nothing—nothing—like what I’d left behind.
I missed it all so much. The vibrant colors and warm winds rustling the leaves of the ancient oaks shading the Prado. The waves rushing in with a dull roar until they crashed up against the Malecon, a fine spray creating a translucent curtain through which I looked out over sky and water that went on forever. Breathing in salt air, suffused with the sense of well-being that had once been my everyday existence. The way that food had tasted more complex and intense, how my clothes, those linens and cottons that were as fine and light as air, had brushed in an almost sensual manner against my skin. How past, present, and future could be rolled together and savored in one lingering kiss from a beautiful young man. A kiss that had tasted of forever.
That tangible sense of promise that the whole world had been spread out before me, waiting—that even if I left Cuba to explore that world, Cuba would be there, waiting with her open arms and passionate embrace.
Never.
Never again.
Even before we left, my beautiful island had been irrevocably altered. Now, it was … unspeakable.
The latest news to reach us was that our house in Miramar had been “reclaimed for the people.” And promptly turned into apartments for high ranking members of the Party. It would have been bad enough, this idea that some random stranger was in my childhood room, lying in my bed with its soft sheets and rifling through my clothes. Pawing through my things—the photographs and journals with all the hopes and dreams of the innocent girl I’d been carefully inscribed between the covers—those things, real and intangible, I’d been forced to leave behind. But that it was those heartless, filthy bastards with all that blood on their hands was abhorrent on a level I couldn’t even begin to express.
“Even if the opportunity comes to return to Cuba, it will never be the same again.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, niña.”
I stared at my mother before allowing my gaze to touch on Abuelita and Papi, lingering the longest on Carlito—swallowing hard as our gazes met, watching light gradually dawn in the depths of those striking pale green eyes. A smile forced its way out even as my heart felt like it was breaking. “Oh yes I do. I don’t ever want to go back. I can’t.”
• • •
I sat straight up in bed, shivering, the covers in a tangle around my ankles. Despite the midnight chill in the room, I was sweating, my flannel nightgown sticking in damp patches to my shoulders and back. Standing on shaky legs, I grabbed the blanket and draped it around my shoulders as I went to stand by the window. I leaned my forehead against the chilled glass, welcoming the cold against my overheated skin as my shallow gasps created misty, irregular circles of condensation.
It had been too much to hope that Remy’s unexpected visit, full of good food and laughter would be enough to keep the dreams at bay. Like clockwork, every time I wrote one of those checks I’d relive that final evening. How I’d gazed into each face by turn and understood with utter certainty they weren’t prepared to relinquish their dream, any more than I was prepared to embrace it. We were at cross-purposes, my family and I, and I couldn’t bear to keep playing out this drama, over and over, until they broke me. Because that’s what it would have taken.
So I’d left. That very night. But I hadn’t left them behind. Not in the ways that mattered to them. Despite the fact that I never once heard a word in response to the checks I sent, I continued to send them every month. Something I had to do. If only for Carlito. I wanted him to at least have a piece of our former life—in the ways that would benefit him the most—and I knew that without the financial contribution I provided, that would have been close to impossible. But he deserved at least that much for all he’d left behind. For all he’d never be able to reclaim—or claim, for that matter—even if he wasn’t fully aware of that just yet.
Most of all, I wanted him to have the tools with which to forge his own identity. His own future.
And if in turn, the price for my freedom was to mentally revisit that scene, month after month, well then, that was a cross I could bear.
Four
“Natalie, good to see you.”
The sudden rush of frigid air was almost immediately swallowed by the dry heat emanating from the massive cast-iron woodstove. The old thing had stood sentry in the corner of the foyer for nearly a century—since the days of red velvet-flocked wallpaper and ornate lamps, their beaded shades casting mysterious shadows throughout the rooms. Back then, lush Oriental rugs had lain scattered haphazardly across the black and white marble tiles—warming the floors while the lovely multihued ladies imported from the original Mercier stomping grounds of New Orleans reclined prettily on brocaded sofas and chairs. There, they’d gossip and read and tat lace and do needlework, passing the time until their respectable beaus could slip away from their Gilded Age balls and fragile wives.
Those men, they would arrive at the brick and wrought-iron fronted Gramercy townhome for their nighttime visits, relaxing in the easy, Southern-drenched hospitality that first generation of Merciers had raised to an art form that they offered along with good drinks and even better food, providing a safe, discreet environment in which the men who served as starchy pillars of society during the day could shed the strictures that came from living within such a highly constrained caste system. In so many integral ways Mercier’s mission hadn’t changed since its earliest inception—providing food, drink, and discretion, whether it was for the city’s power brokers or couples in search of the perfect romantic dinner. More than reason enough for Mrs. Mercier to refuse to get rid of the old stove, no matter how much the busboys complained about having to clean it and keep it stocked with wood. She insisted it was a good luck charm—a symbol of Mercier’s beginnings—and that it would be bad luck to get rid of it before it was ready to go. When it fell apart or ceased working otherwise, she’d get rid of it then, but not a stone cold moment before.
“Mr. Barnes, what a lovely surprise. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” I smiled and nodded at his two companions.
“I apologize for just dropping in. This is kind of an impromptu meeting—any possibility you have space for three? Just for cocktails.”
“Of course. Right this way.” Shifting the reservation time for a new customer to a slightly later spot in the log, I wrote Gregory Barnes’ name above it, then turned to lead him and his guests to a high-backed corner booth near the front windows flanked by potted palms, a spot both visible and private. As they seated themselves, one of them, a tall, younger man with that same air of quiet power as Mr. Barnes, nodded at me with a polite smile while the other, a more visibly loud sort, taking up space not so much in size, but rather more in how he held himself and moved, not-so-inadvertently brushed a hand against my backside as he seated himself.
Taking an unobtrusive step to one side, I subtly turned away from him as I asked, “Your usual, Mr. Barnes?” waiting for his nod. Turning my attention to the other men, “Gentlemen, if I may take your drink orders, I’ll have them taken care of right away.”
“You can take care of me any way you want, honey.” The loud man winked and laughed, the
sound discordant and jarring.
So, so predictable, these types of men. At least the other two looked disgusted with their companion, expected from Mr. Barnes, since he’d never been anything less than a perfect gentleman, but the added apologetic smile from his younger companion was surprising enough that I found myself returning it with a small one of my own.
As a busboy arrived at the table with a pitcher of ice water and Mr. Barnes’ usual bowl of spiced almonds, I made my way to the bar where I passed on the orders for a martini, extra dry, three olives, and a Johnnie Walker and soda in addition to Mr. Barnes’ preferred Macallan. Brought by him each year from Scotland and kept in a locked display behind the bar with an engraved brass nameplate identifying the owner of the locker’s contents. One of the perks of being a regular at Mercier’s—ensuring that a favored customer’s preferred drink was always available.
I turned away from the bar and glanced down at my watch, surprised to discover it was already past six—I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I knew if I didn’t take my break before I left for the evening, Remy was liable to tattle on me to Mrs. Mercier.
“Ah, just in time,” the devil himself cheerfully proclaimed, holding up a silver dome-covered plate as I entered the kitchen. “Now, don’t look at me like that,” he added, half plaintive, half cajoling. “It’s nothing more than a simple grilled cheese and pomme frites, chère.”
I crossed my arms. “Made with?”
A rare wash of scarlet momentarily overtook his olive complexion as he set the plate on the stainless steel counter. “Roblochon and Emmental on brioche.”
In a rush, my dormant appetite came to life and I tried not to drool noticeably. Or smile. “And?”
“Come on, petit, why you spoilin’ for a fight?”
Between Here and Gone Page 4
