by Carlos Eire
My grandfather cries for a while about that.
The second step is to change all the currency so that the bills and coins that people have will be worthless and all Cubans can start on a completely level playing field. Each person is allowed to change a set amount of money, maybe fifty pesos.
It’s a fine Sunday morning and everyone in the country has lined up at appointed places to change whatever money they can. If you haven’t changed your money by the end of the day, tough luck. From that day forward, all the old currency will be worthless.
The lines are very long, but they move fast because you are allowed to change so very little. I’m standing in line, and so is my brother Tony, and everyone else I know. No one is sure about the rules, but the money changers don’t ask very many questions. When you finally make it to the changing table with bills and coins in your hand, they take them from you and give you new colorful bills with pictures of Fidel and Che and Raúl and Camilo and all the other heroes of the Revolution. The new coins are so flimsy that we take turns trying to blow them off one another’s hands.
No one panics, but it’s still nothing more than controlled chaos. Very quickly, people discover that they can go to more than one changing center. So everyone is trying to hit as many lines as possible.
I don’t think I have ever heard people talk more loudly or faster than on this Sunday morning. And that’s saying a lot for Cubans.
“Did you hear that there’s another changing center five blocks down, on Twenty-seventh Street?”
“Yeah, and there’s another one ten blocks in the other direction, on Ninth Avenue.”
Those who don’t have enough money to change hire themselves out as changers, for a fee. Some of the fees are pretty high. And there is a lot of thievery going on. You hand your money to perfect strangers who promise to change it for you for a twenty-five-percent cut and you never see them again.
There are plenty of stories about heart attacks.
Four decades later, I am staring at my troubled bank account, meditating on the numbers I see before me. Suddenly I see them all turn to zero. I am back in line that Sunday morning and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I still expect all the money in America to disappear someday, the same way. It’s all an illusion, mere figures on paper. Retirement account? Stocks? Bonds? Savings accounts? Forget it. I don’t put away one cent. I don’t have any money in any bank, save for the little I have in my checking account, which is always fully depleted by the end of every month. I spend every cent I earn and then some. I’m always in debt, always ready for the day when everyone else will lose their money. On that day, thanks to my advance planning, I won’t have any to lose. I’ll only have debts to wipe out, like my uncle’s customers, come the Revolution.
Ha.
I don’t count on my retirement account at all, because I don’t expect to see a penny of the money my employer has forced me to put into the hands of professional investors.
College funds for the kids? Ha. Dream on. What’s the point? The Revolution will make sure they’re educated for free.
Not one penny put away. Not one penny to lose.
I think of my relative Pepito Abeillé, who helped me see the futility of saving money. He was one of those who hired himself out as a changer that Sunday morning. He hustled that day as he had never hustled in his entire life. His problem and his salvation were one and the same. He had never worked a day in his life. His father had lost his entire fortune back in 1929 and he’d been poor since then. But, like some deranged Spanish hidalgo from a picaresque novel, Pepito always dressed in a white silk suit and refused to work, insisting that he was too dignified for any job. He and his mother lived in a tiny apartment in Old Havana that was full of old newspapers and reeked of cat piss. I think the rest of the family kept them alive with small contributions. He was a smart guy, Pepito, and always very proper. But he wouldn’t work. He’d come to our house a few times a year, in his white suit, sometimes with his old mother in tow, and visit for a few hours. He had it all figured out. He paid visits to every relative, no matter how distant.
On that Sunday, Pepito made more money than he had in his entire life, changing currency for the family that had supported him for so long. He was doing everyone a favor, and everyone felt obliged to let him take his percentage.
I am back in that line again, getting close to the money changers. I see Pepito coming towards us, walking briskly. I’ve never seen him move so fast. He’s walking all over Havana in his white suit, changing bills and coins for everyone he knows—for a fee, of course. On this day he’s lost nothing and gained much.
My hero, Pepito.
I see another hero of the day, my grandfather Amador. He has lost a lot and is weeping, but he hasn’t lost everything. For years, he’s been stashing away jars of silver coins inside his living room wall. Yes, he opened holes in his wall, put the jars in, one by one, sealed up the wall with plaster, and repainted it. He had lost it all in 1929 and no longer entrusted all of his savings to banks.
He has a wall full of silver on the day the currency changes. He stares at the wall and thinks of the hidden silver that he will mine, little by little, until the day he drops dead. He knows that silver always buys you more stuff than your neighbor, if your neighbor doesn’t happen to have any. Even in a Communist paradise. He knows instinctively that ration cards are a scam, just another way of making unfairness seem fair.
Almost everything is rationed now. Every now and then the stores get a huge shipment of rice, or black beans, or beef, or whatever, and the word spreads like wildfire. Everyone rushes down to the store and stands in line forever. Sometimes if the line is too long, by the time your turn is near, they run out of the beans, or the garbanzos, or the chickens, or whatever.
But the greatest scam of all is the black market. People sell you their rations for more than they paid for them, or trade them for whatever they need more. And there are plenty of people like my grandfather, who have silver to mine, or whatever. There is always some whatever in rationing and in Revolutions.
I’ve been standing in line a lot these past few months. I stand in line with old people, housewives, children, bankers, lawyers, doctors, and former capitalists. Aulet, the man with his own zoo, has to stand in line, too. You have to show up in person, with your card, and stand in line, or you don’t get your food.
Everyone has to stand in line, except the leaders of the Revolution. No one ever sees them or their servants standing in line. Yes, they have servants.
Medicines are disappearing too. And clothing. And appliances. And cars. And hardware. And toys. Everything is disappearing.
No more comic books. No more American films. No more American television programs. No more ice-cream man. No more shaved-ice man. No more fruit man. No more vegetable man. No more coal man. No more guarapo man. No more Jamaican pastry man, and no pastry man song.
“Pasteles…pastelitos…Pasteeeles, paaasteliitos…Frecos, fresquitos…Dulces…buenitos.” Pastries, little pastries, fresh and sweet and good…
I am standing on my porch, listening to his pregón—his selling chant. Man, oh man, that tall, tall Jamaican has the best pastries I have ever eaten. He comes around the neighborhood about once a week, on foot, lugging a huge metal container. Always at evening time, after dinner. His bin is a marvel of engineering. I think he built it himself. It’s full of little doors that open and drawers that pull out to reveal special surprises. Jamaican guy works the doors and drawers with flair, then holds up the pastry with a pair of tongs for you to examine. You can tell by the way he handles them that he loves his pastries. He is as reverent as a priest at the altar, and even more graceful.
I love the chocolate eclairs that are the same color as his arms. And I love the way he speaks Spanish.
But now there is no more pastry man.
No more avocado man either.
I can hear him still. The avocado man has one of the prettiest chants I’ve ever heard.
Aguac
ate maduro, aguacate. Aguaaacate maaaduuuuro, aaaaguuuuaaacaaateee! Avocados, ripe avocados.
We have some good counter-jingles for that guy.
Aguacate maduro, peo seguro. Ripe avocados, fart for sure…
Aguacate verdoso, peo apestoso. Greenish avocados, stinky farts…
Aguacate amarilloso, peo ruidoso. Yellowish avocados, noisy farts…
And so on. We have dozens of them. Even my dad has pitched in with a few counter-jingles of his own.
Aguacate podrido, peo mordido. Rotten avocados, a fart bitten into.
One of his crown jewels.
And there are those damn Pioneers marching again, droning on with their stupid slogans. I think of the avocado man and our counter-chants. Good thing we’ve had plenty of practice at such things. Stupid Pioneers, reminding us that it is all gone, gone, gone.
A lifetime of memories gone in less than a year. An entire culture pulled up by the roots. It is a Revolution, after all.
The priests have vanished too, along with the monks and the nuns. All religious orders have been banished from Cuba. Gone are the Jesuits who had educated Fidel and my father and grandfather and great-grandfather. Gone are the Dominicans, and the Franciscans, and the Carmelites, and the Christian Brothers, and the Ursulines. Gone are the Italian priests who lived across the street from us. All foreign clergy have been expelled from the island.
I am standing in the front parlor of the priests’ house. It is a dark room, the windows shrouded in dark velvet curtains. A confessional booth looms large at the foot of the stairs. These priests are pretty nice, for priests. My mom has sent me to have a chat with the older one because I’m starting to worry about death too much, like everyone in my father’s family. He tells me I have nothing to fear, that death is the doorway to something much better, and that, anyway, it is so, so far away for me. He admits that he is much closer to death than me because he’s old, but he isn’t the least bit scared. He says that when you get to be his age, it doesn’t scare you much at all, especially if you’ve tried to be a good person. I went home feeling so much better.
The younger guy is also very nice. Sometimes he comes over to our house with his tape recorder and asks all of us kids to talk into the microphone and send messages to people in Italy.
“Go ahead and say something. Italians can understand Spanish.” And he shows us how close the two languages are by speaking Italian into the microphone himself. Amazing! We can understand him.
So we speak into the microphone and are all surprised when he plays back the tape. Our voices all sound so high-pitched. We accuse one another of sounding like girls. And the priest laughs a lot at the way in which we all seem so offended by one another’s accusations.
Every now and then the Italian priests would set up a movie projector outdoors, with a large screen, and show movies for the whole neighborhood. The Teahouse of the August Moon was the worst of them all, but we kids had so much fun that night sticking our arms and hands right in front of the projector’s lens and making the grown-ups scream at us. Especially when Manuel gave everyone the finger. A giant finger on the screen, blotting out Glenn Ford. I think I heard the priests laugh, in the darkness.
But they are crying, those priests, on the day they say good-bye to us.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
It seems to go on all day long, for all time. It’s the sound of sledgehammers pounding on sacred symbols at the former convent and school of the Ursulines, one block away from us. The school where Tony had attended preschool and kindergarten. Sledgehammers demolishing crosses. Sledgehammers pulverizing images of Jesus and Mary and the angels and other saints. Sledgehammers demolishing Gothic spires, too, just because they are Gothic and look religious.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
There is nothing else in the world like the sound of sacred symbols being pulverized, little by little.
You can see the workmen on the roof and the towers. I watch the crosses fall, piece by piece, from a block away. The sound waves take a few seconds to travel the distance from the former convent, so the whole process seems unreal. I hear the sound of the hammers striking the stone as the workmen draw back their tools, gaining momentum for the next blow. A little time lag that makes it seem as if past, present, and future are all askew.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
As we ride our bikes to Che Guevara’s palace, we can hear the pounding getting louder and louder. We have to ride past the former Ursuline convent to get to Che’s mansion, which is two blocks farther down the street. Only three or four blocks from my house.
We like to ride down there and ask the guards stationed outside about their guns and beg for bullets. We also like to keep an eye out for Che. Sometimes we can see him pulling in and out of the giant mansion in his Mercedes-Benz. He’s always dressed in his military uniform with the beret, the man who wants to do away with money. So is his chauffeur.
Such a beautiful house. So huge. Such beautiful grounds. Such great palm trees. Such a fabulous set of wrought-iron gates. Such a nice Mercedes. It looks bulletproof.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
We don’t know who owned this house before and we don’t care. The number-two guy in Cuba lives down the street from us. He might have done some terrible things, like wiping out everyone’s money, but he is famous. And kids always like to say they’ve seen someone famous. And they like to see their limousines. And their chauffeurs. And their mansions. Even if they realize what big fat hypocrites they are.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
“Not one step back, not even to gain momentum.”
“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Cuba sí, Yanquis no, Cuba sí, Yanquis no…”
“Fidel, seguro, a los Yanquis dale duro…”
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
Always dressed in his military uniform with the beret, the man who wants to do away with money. So is his chauffeur. I wonder if the chauffeur, a good Revolutionary, has dirty magazines. I’ll wonder about it till the day I die.
Aguacate maduro, aguacate. Aguacate maaaduuuuro, aaaaguuuuaaacaaateee!
Aguacate podrido, peo mordido…
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, comiendo mierda y gastando zapatos…”
Pasteles…pastelitos…Pasteeeles, paaasteliitos…Frecos, fresquitos…Dulces…buenitos.
“Not one step back, not even to gain momentum.”
A giant finger on the screen and priests laughing in the dark.
And they are crying, those priests, as they say good-bye to us. And my grandfather is crying, as he stands in line to change his currency. And the Jamaican pastry guy is crying for his pastries. He loves them so.
And Pepito Abeillé is counting the bills in the pocket of his white slacks.
Whatever. There’s always a whatever in Revolutions.
And I wonder if the chauffeur, a good Revolutionary, has dirty magazines.
Aguacate maduro, aguacate. Aguacate maaaduuuuro, aaaaguuuuaaacaaateee!
Aguacate podrido, peo mordido…
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…
But wait, where are the lizards? Can Fidel and Che make them disappear too? So long as everything else evaporates into memories, why not them, too?
Bad acid, and too much of it. Killer flashbacks.
Bang!
Bummer, man.
Ba…nG…bAnG…baNG…BA…bA…bababababa…nnnnG…
gG…nNGB…
Gnab bing? BanG!
Bgan…gban…BNaG…banbanbanbanG!
Abng…B…Nn nN……NNNgggg…b…b…b……n
baa? BbBbB…bb…N n Ng?……
Gg…gG…gg…GG NoNoNoNo…no
AaaaaaaaaaaA…sí…
Bang!
<*#!!%$+!>
Que C
arajo
Some chapters just can’t be numbered.
Not at all.
I’m sure you have chapters like that in your life.
They’re not safely tucked away in some vault of oblivion, if you have one.
No.
Just the opposite.
The memories are there.
And you wish you could make them go away.
You wish they didn’t exist at all.
Ugly as hell.
Hell itself.
The very essence of pain.
You can’t assign numbers to these chapters.
Not even zero.
Not even a zero ringed with thorns.
You can’t write them the same way as all the others.
They can’t look the same either.
No.
If you were to write them, you could only begin to do it at 2:30 a.m., after a horrible day.
Only when your every nerve is on the point of exploding.
Only on a day in which, several times, you thought you’d be better off dead.
Only on a day in which you spoke out loud to the Prince of Darkness in your basement, and told him to stay in hell and leave you alone.
Only after a day in which you were so lucid about your own plight that it hurt to look at your own hands.
Only after a day in which your powers of denial were at their weakest.
This is one of those chapters.
It’s about Ernesto.
It is about the boy I can hardly mention.
The boy I can only hint at.
The boy my father brought into our house.
The boy no one liked but my father.
The boy whose soul was twisted beyond belief.
The boy whose own childhood must have been hell.
The boy who came from a very poor family.
The boy who sold lottery tickets all day long instead of going to school.
