by Achy Obejas
I can turn my head. I turn it one way and I see the sunrise, sort of, behind the buildings on the other side of the street. I don’t really see the sun, of course—it’s cold and pale and cloudy, but there’s a swash of color at one point, however dim, and that’s my sunrise.
About an hour later, groups of people walk by the window to the train station. They’re bundled up. They carry back packs and briefcases and artists’ portfolios and they’re all walking very fast even though I can see in their faces that they’re really still back in their beds, still sleepily piecing together fragments of dreams and the previous night’s TV offerings. They walk swiftly, think slowly.
When I turn my head the other way, I survey the coffee-shop counter, where middle-aged white men read the newspaper, drink their own cups of coffee and push a fork around a plate of greasy eggs and bacon. I imagine these guys read meters, hang drywall, perhaps move beds and dressers for Polonia Furniture. Some read the Tribune, others the Sun-Times, a few read the Zgoda, with its gray pages and crowded headlines. It smells of burnt meat in here.
I borrow a pen from a waitress—a sassy, older Polish woman with fried-dyed red hair, legs like toothpicks and a fast and furious demeanor. I’m scribbling on a stack of white napkins I liberated from the dispenser. I litter a bunch of dots across a napkin I’ve spread out on my table and try to connect them, one to the other, across, around, in loops. A fly buzzes near the window—I hear it, but I can’t see it. It’s that hum.
What’s important now is to maintain lucidity, to not give in, to not betray myself.
I try to remember what happened back at Tía Celia’s, with Jimmy and Rosa, but I don’t want to. One part of me says, Yes, connect the dots; another part asks, What dots? Whatever I doodle on the napkins smears the minute I move it onto this little puddle of water in the middle of the table. The napkin sucks up the liquid and the dots, the lines, all the connections, vanish.
What really happened?
My own authentic memory: I hurt Gina, she hurt me. I don’t know who hurt whom first—I know I hit her first—but I don’t know when we first hurt each other, or whether that particular detail matters. It is possible—it is entirely possible—that I need to see it in this way and that need dictates what I remember.
Another memory: Jimmy’s penis sliding around Rosa’s lips. That’s undeniable. It’s the same penis that got me wet before, that made me jerk myself loose countless times.
I don’t want to remember any part of this.
When Patricia slides into the seat across from me, I’m not surprised. I wasn’t expecting her—not here, not now—but I’ve got to admit I’m comforted by her presence.
“Hi,” she says. It’s the shortest greeting I’ve ever heard from her; it’s the smallest sound she’s ever made.
“Hi,” I say back.
She is very pale. Even under the red sparkle of her cheeks from the cold outside, she is pale; the red, in fact, just underscores it.
“Whatcha’ doin’?” she says, sounding more like Caridad or Pauli, not at all like herself, whose English is always more clipped, perfect, not so slangy and open-mouthed. Patricia is trying too hard to be casual. I can tell she’s relieved to see me.
“I’m writing a letter to Titi,” I say, pushing the napkins with all the blurred dots at her.
Patricia looks at them, confused, but struggling desperately to find my meaning. “Yeah?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. I lean back in the booth. “These are, well, rough drafts.”
Patricia relaxes, sighs, even laughs a little. “I see,” she says, taking one of the wet napkins in her hands and holding it up as if she were actually trying to decipher it.
“Yeah,” I say, pointing to a place on the napkin in her hands. “This is the part where I was trying to explain why I want to go to Cuba.”
“And why is that?”
“For belonging,” I say. “To get away,” I admit.
Patricia nods. “Well, you’ll belong in some ways, not others,” she says. “And when you get back, everything will still be here, pretty much just like you left it. I learned that lesson myself with my trips to Cuba.”
I ignore her. “How’s Rosa?” I ask. The fly continues to hum somewhere around the booth’s window.
“Fine, actually,” she says. The waitress rushes up to us and Patricia orders a cup of coffee. “A little shaken up but she seems okay for now—there wasn’t any physical harm, and we all just pray she’s such a baby she won’t remember any of this lurid episode. It’s hard to tell.” Patricia swallows. “It’ll be a long time—years—before we’ll really know with Rosa.”
I sit up. “So you believe me?…About what happened?”
Patricia reaches over the table to take my hand. I’m ready to be soothed. “Juani, you didn’t tell anybody anything, remember?” she says. “You ran out. Tía Celia called me. I’ve been looking for you all night. Everybody was very worried.”
“I didn’t…? Then how…?”
“Pauli and Ali saw the whole thing, remember?”
I think back, hard. I can see them crashing through the door, frantic.
“They heard you scream,” Patricia says. “But they saw it—they got there in time to see it.”
“Then why were they all over me? Why were they questioning me like that?” I’m annoyed, irritable. I always end up uncomfortable around Patricia.
She raises an eyebrow. “I…I don’t know,” she says. “Confirmation, probably. Everything seems like it was kind of nutty, from what I hear. And, besides, Caridad and Tía Celia didn’t see anything…my guess is, you were the objective witness.”
“Objective!” Even I find that ridiculous.
Patricia’s coffee arrives and she sucks it up as if it were a shot of whisky. Her hand trembles a bit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my cousin Patricia betray any kind of nervousness before.
“And…Cari?”
The fly escapes from somewhere on the window, makes a flourish in the air and throws itself at my face. I swat at it and it falls in the puddle on the table, its wings shivering. It’s a goodsized fly, with shimmers of blue, out of season today.
Patricia shakes her head solemnly. “A mess,” she says, “but standing by her man.”
I’m absolutely horrified. I feel my jaw go slack, the blood drain from my body.
“I know, I know,” Patricia says. “It’s unbelievable, but in a way, it’s not. You know Cari. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll come around, but it’s a matter of time. It’s just going to take a while to sink in, that’s all.” Patricia squeezes my hand. “You okay?” she asks.
“No…I’m…I don’t know what I am,” I say. I feel airless, numb.
“I think everything will actually be okay, Juani,” she says. “It’ll be a while, but we’ll get through this. I really believe it. So does Tía Celia.”
And I think, Yes, she would—Tía Celia has her vision of the future. I reach over to the wet napkin we’d been pretending was my letter to Titi. I point to one of the few dots still discernible.
“This is the part where I tell Titi about what really happened with Gina,” I say.
Patricia just stares at me, but it’s kind. I put the napkin down. “Do you already know?” I ask, my voice so tiny and weak. The fly, seemingly lifeless, floats on the skin of the water on the table.
“I know what you and Gina said happened couldn’t have happened, but that’s all I know,” Patricia confesses.
“Instinct or rumor?”
“Instinct,” she says.
“You’re good,” I say.
“So are you,” she says.
She smiles. It’s a knowing, intimate smile. It occurs to me that I love my cousin Patricia very much, more than I would have ever imagined.
“We have a lot to talk about, I guess.”
She nods. She pulls a few bills from her purse and pays the restaurant. “Want to wait here while I pull the car around? It’s pretty cold out there.”
I sh
ake my head. “Nah, I’ll just walk with you.” I think, That’s warmth enough.
As we get up to leave, I flick my finger at the fly, freeing it from the puddle of water. It crawls a bit, then takes off, making an aimless loop in the air, then smashes itself against the window pane.
It’s quiet now.
Glossary
abuela
grandmother.
aguí
here.
amerícanada
an American thing or mannerism, usually relates to behavior or attitude rather than objects; usually pejorative.
arroz con leche
rice pudding.
arroz y gandules
Puerto Rican-style rice and beans.
“Ay”
oh.
“Ay Mamá Iné’/ ay Mamá Iné’/ todo’ lo’ negros tomamos café.”
“Oh Mama Inéz/ Oh Mama Inéz/ all us black folks drink coffee”; from an old Afro-Cuban folk song, “Mama Inéz,” popularized by Bola de Nieve.
“Ay que vamos a la playa/ y allá voy/ coje la maleta/ y la cojo…”
lyrics to an old Cuban song, “Maria Cristina”: “Oh, we’re going to the beach/ I’m coming/ grab the suitcase/ and I’ve got it.”
babalao
a Cuban shaman, usually associated with santería.
balsa
raft.
barbudos
the bearded ones; a name used to describe Fidel Castro’s early followers.
bodega
grocery store, usually Cuban- or Latino-owned, very ma and pa style; never a supermarket, which is a supermercado.
bohío
a Cuban peasant’s thatched hut.
boliche
Cuban-style stuffed beef.
buenos días
good morning.
buenas noches
good night, or good evening.
Bustelo
a very popular Cuban-American coffee brand; a very rich, dark roast espresso.
cabrito
goat.
café con leche
Cuban coffee and steamed milk with lots of sugar.
cafesito
a Cuban coffee, usually served espresso-style in a demitasse.
cafetera
coffeemaker; Cubans and many other Latinos use the stove-top coffeemakers, usually used for French espresso, that go directly on the burners.
caldo gallego
Galician-style white bean stew, usually made with different kinds of sausages.
campesinos
peasants, rural people.
carajo
hell, but stronger, more profane.
carnaval
carnival.
cha-cha-chá
a popular Cuban dance in the 1950s that became a North American sensation.
chancletas
informal, often cheap, sandals, more for hanging around the house or the beach than for street use; zories, thongs, slippers.
chivato
tattle-tale, informer—often reserved for Cubans who betray anti-revolutionary activities to the communist government.
“cinta pata, cinta maricona”
“fag tape”; both pata (or pato) and maricona (or maricón) are pejoratives for gay men and lesbians; the latter is more polite, the former is vicious.
claro
of course; clear.
Cocina Al Minuto
the quintessential Cuban cookbook, both on the island and in exile.
comemierda
jerk, asshole, but much stronger and more profane; literally, “one who eats shit.”
compañero(a)
literally, “companion”; used by the early rebels as a mutual address; may also mean “lover,” depending on context.
coño
all-purpose Cuban curse word; absolutely profane; may be used in a variety of combinations to provide different meanings; so strong, sometimes only the second syllable, “ ’ño,” is necessary (in this way, it translates as something akin to “wow,” yet retains its profanity); literally means “cunt.”
corazón
literally, “heart”; used mostly as a term of endearment, like “honey.”
cubana(o)
Cuban.
cubanita(o)
little Cuban; either affectionate or pejorative, depending on context.
cucaracha
cockroach.
descara’os
Cuban slang, from descarados,meaning shameless ones; pejorative.
eleguá
one of the deities in santería; a god who opens and closes doors, creating opportunities; the messenger of the gods. Also refers to the figures or icons representing the god, usually made of wood, shells and other natural items, shaped into a head. May be placed behind doors or on altars.
“en confianza”
in confidence, or confidentially.
“Es que…”
“It’s that…”
“Ese tipo es un comemierda.”
“That guy’s an asshole.”
felicidades
congratulations.
flan
a custard made throughout Latin America, with regional variations.
fufú
green plantains, boiled and mashed, served with bacon or some other spicy meat; a holdover from slave days in Cuba.
gracias
thank you.
guarapo
sugarcane juice.
guayabera
a four-pocket shirt, which can be either casual or formal, worn in the tropics, almost exclusively by men.
gusana(o)
a pejorative used to refer to Cubans exiled from the revolutionary government; literally means “worms” but actually refers to the shape of the duffel bags used by the first wave of refugees, who left by planes or ferries.
independentista
an independentist, or freedom fighter; one who supports independence from colonial powers in one’s country.
kente
handwoven, hand-colored African textiles.
La Habana
Havana; what Cubans call the capital.
lavandería
laundromat.
“los infelizes”
“the unhappy, or unlucky, ones.”
maduro(s)
fried ripe plantain.
malanga
a root used widely in Cuban cuisine; it’s steamed, fried, or boiled; also known as taro in Polynesian and other Asian cuisines.
malecón
the dramatic, crumbling seawall in Havana.
mambo
a dance popularized in Cuba and the U.S. in the 1950s and early 1960s.
“Mamá la negrita/ se le salen los pie’ la cunita/ y la negra mese/ ya no sabe que hace’”
“Ay mama, the little baby/ her feet stick out of the crib/ and mother cradles her/ she doesn’t know what to do”; from an old Afro-Cuban folksong, “Drume Negrita,” popularized by Bola de Nieve.
mamey
a red, juicy Cuban fruit; very sweet.
Marielito
sometimes pejorative, sometimes affectionate, depends on context; refers to those exiles who came to the U.S. through the port of Mariel in 1980, in a mass exodus used by the Cuban government for propaganda purposes—official Cuban broadcasts referred to those who left as “social scum,” which often stuck in the U.S. Many of those who came through Mariel were young, single men. Many were dark-skinned and/or gay. Marielitos as a whole have prospered and proven most of their detractors—including earlier Cuban exiles—wrong.
marrano
pejorative given to Spanish Jews during the Inquisition, the term endures to describe their descendants; literally means “pig.” The more appropriate Hebrew term is “anousim” meaning “the coerced ones.”
José Martí
commonly referred to as the Apostie of the nation, he was the Cuban-bom son of Spaniards who helped plan and lead, with Antonio Maceo, the Cuban War of Independence against Spain in the late nineteenth century. A
writer of essays, newspaper articles and classic children’s stories, he was also a poet whose work probably anticipated modernism. He spent much of his adult life in exile, mostly in the U.S., and died within the first few days of the actual war. Today, he is praised and claimed by both the Cuban revolutionaries and by Cubans in exile.
Materva
a brand name for a non-alcoholic beverage bottled in Miami and very popular among Cuban-Americans. It’s made from maté, an herb particularly celebrated in Argentina (for tea), and very fizzy.
“Me da tanta lastimá.”
“I feel so badly.”
merengue
an extraordinarily fast-paced dance music from the Dominican Republic, very popular in U.S. Latino enclaves.
“Mi gusanita”
“My little worm”; affectionate, vernacular; see gusana.
“¡Mi mamá!”
“My mother!”
“Mi prima Cari me quiere gobernar…/ Y yo le sigo, le sigo la corriente/ porque no quiero que diga la gente/ que mi prima Cari me quiere gobernar.”
a take-off on an old Cuban song called “Maria Cristina,” in which the words are: “María Cristina wants to run my life/ and I go along, along with it/ because I don’t want people talking/ about how María Cristina runs my life.” Here, Juani inserts mi prima Cari (my cousin Cari) in place of María Cristina.
