“Just last night I dreamed about you, María, and do you know what I saw?” he asked, taking her hand.
“Tell me.”
“An evening just like the one we’re having here and now. With you sitting across from me.” He smiled tenderly. “I also saw something else: just down there,” Nestor said and pointed towards a little pier where couples went strolling. “I saw us sitting there, on a bench looking out at the water, and we were embracing, besando, besando, with so much happiness, our kisses tasting of the sea, and your face so joyful that I knew that we were surely to fall in love.” Then he crossed his heart and added: “Te juro—I swear—it’s the truth, and, if you believe me, María, it will become the truth.”
Maybe it was the beer she had been drinking, but when Nestor told her “Come on, let’s see,” she didn’t mind going.
They passed the remainder of that evening sitting out on that pier necking, unable to let go of each other.
It’s amazing what a single evening on a beautiful night by the sea will do. On their way back into Havana proper, as the trolley jostled along Fifth Avenue, they were holding each other, mostly in silence, as if, in fact, they were in love. Now and then, he would kiss her hand, and, more than once, she kissed his hand back. Their expressions must have been rapturous. Other passengers, especially the older ones, with their hound-dog jowls and memories of their own pasts, simply nodded their understanding: oh, to be that young again, to be in love, to feel the world expanding, and not diminishing around you. During that ride, Nestor sat beside María with a dumbstruck grin on his face, his notebook of lyrics, incidentally, set upon his lap, where his verses occasionally seemed to rise and fall in accord with Nestor’s sighs and the ardent expansions of that upon which they rested.
OVER THE NEXT FEW MONTHS, THEY WOULD MEET AFTER HER last shows, late into the morning. She got used to finding Nestor waiting for her in the alley outside the backstage door (her fellow dancers, leaving after her, giggling about the buenmoso, the lady-killer, who had won María’s heart). They always ended up embracing against an arcade wall, her right leg jammed between his knees, the pipe inside his trousers nearly bursting its seams every time and Nestor whispering the kind of poetry that made María let him sink his fingers inside her. Light-headed, they’d take a few steps, then begin to kiss and fondle each other against a column, to the point of madness. His eyes rolled up into his head, he’d tell her, “Ay, María, mi María. Sabes que me estás matando?”—“Don’t you know that you’re killing me?” Then he’d drop to his knees, lift up the hem of her skirt, press his face against the dead center of her panties, police sirens in the distance, the world ending—none of it mattering. Still, she always stopped short with Nestor, fearing his poder, that she couldn’t manage him, or that he would think her a puta in the end, that Ignacio would discover them.
But one night while unraveling a dancer’s garter over her leg at the club, and realizing that the thought of Nestor made her feel like touching herself, her sheets at home covered with peacocks’ eyes of her own moisture (or with outlines of the wound in Christ’s side), María decided that she couldn’t take waiting anymore.
A few days later, during the quieter hours of an afternoon, in a sun-soaked room near the harbor, in a solar that Nestor had borrowed from a friend, and on a mattress with springs so far gone that it took her back to la Cucaracha, Maria allowed Nestor to do whatever he pleased with her. The moment he removed her dress, he stripped down himself, proudly displaying his virility, and proceeded to fondle, bite, and spread Maria open in ways that she couldn’t have imagined. She soon learned that romping with Nestor was like riding in her papito’s carriage up into the hills, and not just because of the way Nestor nearly burst her into pieces—the wider she spread and the more capacious she became the more he filled her—but because of his caresses, tender kisses, and endearments—“Sabes que te quiero, María?”—“Don’t you know that I love you?” he’d say again and again, his long-fingered musician’s hands brushing her hair from her eyes. As he’d take hold of a fistful of her hair, she’d raise her head, suckling him, but so differently than she had with Ignacio, who sometimes liked to slap her face or twist her nipple painfully while she was doing it. No, with Nestor she remembered the techniques the prostitutes at la Cucaracha had taught her while sitting around bored in the hallways: to bite and lick and then withdraw, to roll one’s tongue in a certain way, all gently, then almost viciously, as if trying to draw out the last bit of sweetness from a piece of raw sugarcane—and soon enough her knuckles were soaked with him, and licking that off her hand, she tongue-kissed him with it until, just like that, he became excited again. Then, proving that a man’s weeping member could be used like a stylus, he left traces of himself over every inch of her body, writing out the words Amor and Te amo with his seminal fluids on the small of her back and along the plumpness of her nalgitas; and when her upraised rump sent out that exquisite heat, like a woman softly breathing on a man’s neck, Nestor, begging her forgiveness, had to go there too—he couldn’t help himself, and María, despite that impertinence, found that it was a delicious pain and found that if she touched herself at the same time as she raised her haunches, she fell into pieces again. They went at it for hours, and no matter how many times they did, he wanted to go at her again, as if there would be no end of his desire for her. In fact, they hardly knew restraint and only finally stopped when her voice had gotten hoarse from screaming.
They could go hardly anyplace, not even church, without hounds following them in packs. At the Sunday movie matinees they attended, not a few hours after he accompanied her to Mass, they always sat in the darkest corner of the highest balcony, where the fewest people lingered, and in a row above everybody else. Even then they kissed so much and so loudly that there was always someone to snap at them. “Be quiet!” and “Where is your shame?” Once, during a Barbara Stanwyck film with Mexican actors overdubbing the lines (films with Spanish subtitles were more difficult for her to comprehend, but she generally got the drift of the dramatic formulas and, if anything, learned a little English along the way), Nestor, off in his own little world of passion, couldn’t restrain himself any longer. Slumped down, with her eyes set on the screen, Maria, while luxuriating in the theater’s aire condicionado, absently fondled Nestor through his trousers, and with that whatever remained of his sense of saintly behavior gave way. Just like that, with the fingers of one hand deep inside her dress, the priestly Nestor Castillo pulled his thing out with the other—she could hear its struggle against the fabric, its scraping against his zipper’s teeth—and there it stood, silhouetted against the luminous on-screen visage of Stanwyck. Asking María for her forgiveness, as he always did, Nestor further begged her please, in the name of heaven, just to kiss him there, if only that one time. But in the balcony of the Payret? Sighing and hearing cries of “puta” and much worse coming from the audience, she brought Nestor to climax, if only to watch the rest of the movie in peace.
Stupid, sinful, oh, what would Concha have thought? But she could not, for the life of her, get that músico out of her head. She felt him inside her for days after they had parted, and even years and years later, María, sitting around with her daughter watching television, sometimes flashed on the magnificence of his pene; longer than her forearm, thick as her wrist, it was a work of art, which both terrified her and made her smile. But was it love—did she ever feel such wonderful emotions? One thing María knew was that she liked being with Nestor: The reverence with which he looked at her, the way his sex went down in one moment and came back up the next, the ecstatic passage of his tongue lapping at her papaya, licking her until kingdom come—her body quivering and doubling over onto herself, her head shaking—she felt herself the object of his earthly worship. In the end, he was genteel and humble about the whole business, as if there was nothing special about him; and, best of all, he was careful in his treatment of María.
Chapter TWENTY
With María working at nig
ht, save for when she had afternoon rehearsals, she never knew when Nestor might rush over from the Explorers’ Club during his lunch hour, which was usually sometime after three, and call up into her window. At first, she didn’t mind seeing him waiting below, among the market stalls, and introducing him as her new novio to her vendor friends. They’d go for walks, sometimes sit in the cool and dusty interior of the Mother of Mercy church, or in the cathedral, holding hands and praying. Sometimes they dallied in the Parque Central or visited the Havana zoo. He never had much money in his pockets, didn’t even own an automobile, but still he bought her little things—ice cream cones from the popular Coppelia’s parlor, mainly, or they’d sip rum and Cokes—Cuba Libres—in a bar, eat cheap meals in waterside fritter joints. As they passed by, men always checked her out, and fiercely so, but he didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he just wasn’t like Ignacio, who’d never put up with that kind of thing. Nestor, el pobre, was just too good-natured for that. People liked him—old ladies, looking down from their balconies, with fans in their hands, were always nodding approvingly at the very nice looking young fellow with the dazzling belleza by his side. He seemed to know every street musician—“Oye, Negro!” he’d call out to some fellow playing his tres in a placita, “How are you doing?” And when he’d walk over to say hello, he’d introduce María as “mi mujer,” which always made her blush. He always did so with utter pride and, perhaps, disbelief that he could find himself with so glorious a beauty. Just to look at her, he’d say, filled his head with wonderful melodies.
On the weekends, they’d go to the beach and, after a nice swim, find a room for hire by the hour, Nestor never exceeding the limits of what he could afford. (But how delicious those hours were!) Monday nights, when her club closed, they’d sometimes roam the back alleys of the slums, where he’d seek out some of the finest street musicians in Havana, in the midst of drum and horn descargas, jam sessions. Those musicians were something else, and it was a joy for María to watch Nestor, blaring away rapturously on his trumpet, while those old-style rumberos in the crowd, some of the best dancers she’d ever see in her life, filled the alley with motion. The males, bone thin, jaunty, and dressed entirely in white, turned themselves into love-besotted roosters—the rumba was a courtship dance after all. They’d jerk their heads in and out as if wanting to peck the air before them, and flail their elbows behind them, like imaginary wings, their legs jutting up and down, and their steps taking all kinds of turns and backwards struts as if to scratch the dust behind them. The women emulated the movements of love-hectored hens, who didn’t want to be bothered, backing off at one moment and yet, after another, coming forward, heads nipping at the air, hips swerving, then torturing the roosters with the fanning of their skirts, as if to give them their scent. They always ended up dancing as one, a rapturous embracing and twirling taking place; such displays always left beautiful María, standing in the crowd, breathless until, unable to take it, she’d cut loose and, slipping off her shoes, dance one hell of a rumba herself.
And sometimes, late at night, they’d linger by the Malecón, and she’d listen to Nestor, without a practical bone in his body, dreamily play his trumpet for the seagulls, ever so oblivious, as María thought years later, to the world that would eat him alive. He’d tell her that he loved her. They’d kiss, drive themselves into a frenzy, and feel desperate for each other. Yes, all that was so wonderful, but you know what? For all the things they did together, and despite her soft spot for musicians, they never really seemed to have much to talk about: maybe falling in love is just that way, she had thought in those days.
DURING ONE OF THEIR AFTERNOON STROLLS, ALONG THE PRADO, Nestor sat beside María on a bench and, under the shade of a laurel, took her gently by the hand.
“There’s something I want to say to you, María.” He was so timid he could barely bring himself to look into her eyes. “I…I…Nestor Castillo, want you to become my prometida.” And he reached into his pocket, producing a thin gold band. “My fiancée…and then my wife.”
He could barely breathe by then, she’d remember.
“Pero, Nestor.” She was touching his face. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes, with all my heart.”
“But why now, mi querido? Didn’t you tell me that you’re going to New York with your brother? What of that?”
He waved his hand in the air, as if being pestered by a bee.
“That is only a little bit true. It was true before I met you, María, but now, but now, I don’t know. My brother Cesar has got all these crazy ideas about New York, like it’s a paradise, where he thinks earning money will be easy, but the truth is, María, I really don’t want to leave mi país, mi Cuba. And”—he kissed her hand—“you are everything I’d ever want here.”
When María did not answer him, he went on. “We could go back east, to Oriente, to my family farm, to live there, away from all this. Or we could stay here in Havana. If I stay on at the Explorers’ Club, who knows what kind of job I might end up with there—maybe as a waiter. The boss likes me.”
That afternoon, María thought about everything Nestor had just said, every possible equation passing through her guajira mind. He had no real education, no reputation as a musician, and to live on a farm again was beyond her imaginings. She missed the simplicity of life in her valle, but not enough to return to the campo. That’s when a veil fell over her emotions, and María, a practical soul, could only think that with Nestor, for all his handsomeness and the magnificence of his soul and body, she’d end up sharing a poor man’s life.
And so, por fin, that afternoon, she told him, “Te amo, Nestor—please don’t forget that—but you’ve asked me so suddenly that I need time to gather myself before giving you an answer.”
Leaving him that day, she already knew.
STILL, SHE FELT TORMENTED ABOUT NESTOR, AND SOME PART OF her, the kindlier and less selfish María, wanted to stay with him. But hadn’t she already had enough sadness in her life? These were thoughts that came most strongly to her during one of the few nights they had actually spent sleeping side by side, in his friend’s solar, three in all. Nestor, after ravishing her, drifted off peacefully enough, María caressing his brow as if Nestor were an angel, until she too fell asleep. She was dreaming about seeing her sister, Teresita, in a field, picking flowers on a beautiful spring day, so happy that her sister seemed to be alive, the kind of dream that came to her as a pure joy, when Nestor awakened her, with yelps and cries. He sat up, his heart beating rapidly, his body trembling and covered in sweat, shadows, she would swear, swarming over his face. “What is it, Nestor?” she asked him, cradling him in her arms. “Tell me, Nestor.” He opened his eyes, looked away, as if ashamed of himself over such a display of fear, as any man could be, as if no real Cuban macho should ever tremble so in front of a woman. “It’s nothing,” he swore to her. “Nothing, te juro.”
But later that same night he awakened her again, and this time he told María about his dream, which always began as a pure memory: he was a boy again, of five, feverish and sick, on the brink of death, at his family’s farm out in Oriente. A priest stood over him, muttering some gibberish in Latin and rubbing holy oil upon his forehead; his mamá, una santa, by his bedside, wept, her face ravaged by grief; from the yard he could hear his papi sawing wood, hammering nails, for his coffin. Outside, his older brother Cesar, in his stately adolescence, peered in from a window that faced his bed, smiling sadly. All those details, Nestor told María, were true. “You see, I was supposed to die, but I didn’t.” Of course, he was thankful for that, otherwise he would never have had the glorious pleasure of knowing her, of tasting her lips, of drowning in her body…. Still, he told her about other dreams. He’d find himself in a narrow and lightless tunnel, so confining that he could barely move, let alone breathe, and he would swear that if he as much swallowed a single gasp of air, he would die.
That’s when he told María that he just didn’t feel long for this world.
�
��I know it doesn’t make sense, María, but since I cheated death as a boy, I sometimes think that it’s following me, that something terrible is in the room and it’s only a matter of time and that…” His chest was heaving, and he could barely catch his breath, his brow covered with sweat. “…if I just breathe I’ll be swallowing poison and that poison is death—that’s what wakes me up.”
She covered his mouth with her hand, her naked body pressed against him.
“Please Nestor,” she told him, “stop thinking about such things, or you’ll make yourself sick.”
But he went on and on, about the purgatorial sufferings of his past. She wanted to take care of him then, el pobre, as she’d always wanted to take care of her sister and her papito. But at the same time, as much as she felt for Nestor, she had to wonder, Who will take care of me?
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Beautiful Maria of My Soul Page 12
