My Lost Cuba Read online

  MY LOST CUBA

  Copyright © 2013 by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of

  the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  EAST END PRESS

  Bridgehampton, New York

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013945966

  ISBN 978-0-9887673-2-4

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9887673-3-1

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  BOOK DESIGN BY PAULINE NEUWIRTH, NEUWIRTH & ASSOCIATES

  JACKET DESIGN BY OLIVER MUNDAY

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To my wife, Sondra,

  who is responsible for this book,

  To my mother, Isabelita, who taught me to love,

  To my father, Celso, who showed me

  how to love our land.

  MORE THAN FIFTY years have passed since the events in this book occurred. This is a story about the Cuba I knew, the island I feel in my bones and in my heart. Some characters are people I knew, others were created by my imagination, crafted of bits and pieces of those who existed or should have existed. I lived through some of the experiences, others I wish I had. Some of the characters at the farm are real; their names may have been changed, but if I close my eyes I still see them, walking, riding, joking, and working. I loved the land. I still smell the cut grass in the pasture and the pungent odors coming from the stables. It was part of my life. My family worked to create an enterprise we shared, and now it is all gone, abandoned, and ruined.

  I have not returned to Cuba, but I don’t want to bore you with that. This is a long story. Sit down and enjoy it. Share my feelings, my memories, and my thoughts. One day, sooner than later, we may go and see our palm trees, the whiteness of our beaches, and smile at the jokes around a bar while we play a round of Cubilete. My children may visit the places where I grew up, where I loved, where I suffered. Cuba is there—waiting.

  Contents

  1 - Back

  2 - The Black Stallion

  3 - The Breakfast

  4 - Ricardo and the Bulldozer

  5 - Chirra

  6 - The Family

  7 - Martinito and Havana

  8 - The Visitor

  9 - The Baseball Game

  10 - The Park

  11 - Mike and Rita

  12 - The Family Reunion

  13 - Mike in Havana

  14 - The Tractor

  15 - Back to the Farm

  16 - El Norte

  17 - La Roca

  18 - Santi Spiritus

  19 - Kawama

  20 - Manuel

  21 - Dinner at La Zaragozana

  22 - The Girls Meet

  23 - La Zafra

  24 - Time to Leave

  25 - Patricia and Laureano

  26 - Cienfuegos

  27 - The Apartment

  28 - Maria Alicia’s Engagement Party

  29 - Paulino’s Turn

  30 - Changes

  31 - The Letter

  32 - December

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  — 1 —

  Back

  DON MIGUEL WALKED on the paths of the garden early in the morning, wearing his red silk robe and favorite leather slippers. He had scarcely slept the night before, just turned over and over in bed. He was worried about everything and nothing. His mind was crowded with memories of people, images, thoughts, and anxieties. Just another night, as the ones he had had before and before that. He had turned around and stretched out his hand—and she was not next to him. At last he got up and decided to take a walk. No one else was awake in the big bohío. So many people lived, ate, and slept on the farm, but it did not matter. She was gone. Close to five years had passed, maybe six . . . who cares? Time did not matter. He could not bring her back, and he was alone without her. He heard the sounds of the batey, the windmill dumping the water from the well, and the voices of the vaqueros, bringing the cows to be milked. He did not want to talk to them—another day without her loomed ahead. He could return to his room and read a book, but he had read them all; he knew them all by heart.

  He heard the crunching of gravel. Someone was walking behind him on the path. Who wants to bother me? He wondered querulously. I haven’t bothered anyone.

  “Don Miguel, how do you feel? Did you sleep well last night? Do you want me to bring you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks, Ricardo, don’t bother. I’m a tired old man. Leave me alone for a while.” He was trying not to sound curt, and he added, “Thanks for asking.”

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  “Thanks, I’m a little bit tired, that’s all.”

  “I’ll have Cuca bring you coffee. You’ll feel better.”

  “Thanks, but not now.”

  Left alone, he toured the garden, looking at the roses and camellias she had planted, pulling weeds from flower bed after flower bed as tears came to his eyes.

  THE DOORBELL TO his apartment rang, and he discovered a messenger with a telegram. Mike Rodriguez waited until he had closed the door to read it. His father’s accountant had sent a short missive: “Your father needs you. Urgent. Come home. Call me. Pedro Lustre.”

  It was too late to call.

  When he woke up the next morning, he called Mary, his best friend, and arranged to have her turn in his final paper of the semester. Then he called a travel agency and made reservations for Havana. The next step was to call Lustre at his father’s office.

  “Thank God you’re coming,” Lustre said.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t like the way your father is acting and feeling. He’s a different person.”

  “That’s all?” Mike asked, slightly annoyed.

  “No, that’s not all. I was very worried. I hadn’t heard from him, so I went to the farm.”

  “And—?”

  “He raised hell, asking why I had made the trip. That I ‘should take care of my own business, and not leave the office.’”

  “That sounds like him.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t like what I saw. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He spends most of the day in his red robe, walking around the garden, pulling weeds from the flower beds. He’s not riding his horse. He’s eating poorly.”

  “But what’s the urgency?”

  “Ricardo called me a few days after I left. Said that your father is getting more depressed, that he only talks about your mother and how he misses her. He hasn’t been out of the batey in weeks. He doesn’t even go to check the pastures!” He paused. “Your mother’s anniversary is coming up.”

  “Yes, I know. In ten days it will have been six years.”

  “I thought that you should know how he’s feeling. Ricardo is so worried about his health, and only you can bring him out of this depression.”

  “Do my sisters know?”

  “No, I didn’t want to tell them. Adelaida worries too much, and I don’t have to tell you about your sister Lourdes.”

  “Are you sure that I have to make this trip? I have a lot of work here. I can still cancel my reservation.”

  “No, don’t cancel. Trust me. He needs you.”

  Mike was still reluctant, but he gave in. “Well, I trust you. Thanks fo
r worrying about my father. I’ll call you after I see him.”

  “I’m having Fernando pick you up at the airport. Have a safe trip.”

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Mike opened the door of his father’s car and stepped out. Sweltering, damp air embraced him. His face was covered with the dust of the long, tedious trip across the island. He felt the weight of his woolen slacks and his blue oxford shirt, so wet with sweat they clung to his body. He stretched his back to ease the soreness from fourteen hours of travel. He took a deep breath and smelled the cut grass mixed with the pungent odor of the corrals and stables. The contours of the big house were softened by the setting sun that flooded the sky with pinks and reds, lurid against the deep green of the pastures. Fernando hoisted his bags out of the trunk.

  Mike entered the house and proceeded to his father’s room. He knocked on the door and waited. Not hearing a welcome, he slowly opened the door. His father was dozing, so he softly shut the door and left. In the back of the house, he opened the small iron gate leading to the formal garden that displayed a jumbled mixture of all the foreign influences on the island of Cuba. He sat down on a small bench—its stone was cold and damp to the touch—and eyed the gleaming pebbles on the path. How many times had he used one to hit a red-winged blackbird? How many times had he tried to hit a small lizard? He smiled. He felt like a bird that had flown from the North. He touched the left pocket of his shirt and pulled out a cigar, tested the degree of dryness of the wrapper, and then the dark outer leaf. He pulled out his grandfather Carlos’ gold cigar cutter and cut the tip, then carefully lit it, and slowly inhaled the aroma. One big drag filled his mouth with blue smoke, and exhaling it, he watched it drift in the darkening sky. Before him were the rest of the buildings of the batey, the stables, the bohíos of the married employees, and the large warehouse where the unmarried men slept in rows of hammocks. All were painted in the farm colors of red and pure white. He heard the sound of the car being driven to the garage. Before long, the cigar had developed a delicate oval of ash. Mike took a last long puff and reentered the house.

  The high living room ceiling had rough beams of mahogany that had been cut down by his grandfather from virgin forest to make way for the cane fields. A grand piano commanded a corner. The French doors on the opposite side of the living room opened into a large inner courtyard, filled with luxurious tropical plants. His father’s room opened onto both that inner courtyard and to the outside of the house. Mike crossed the courtyard and knocked on the door again. His father still rested on the large bed with white sheets and big pillows. A white mosquito net blurred his face, and his strong body was partially covered by a white cotton sheet. An old German shepherd bitch slept under the bed and hearing Mike, lifted her head and started to growl, then recognizing him, she came out from under the bed and started to lick his hands. She was his father’s favorite, and she followed him around like a dutiful Japanese wife, a few steps behind. Her name, Mitzi, was the first name of a movie star, and of an old family friend, both temperamental. His father, now almost awake, uttered irritably, “Why did you have to come?” and then coughed a deep tobacco cough.

  “Lustre called. He was worried about you. I’m worried, too. When I arrived, you were dozing. I didn’t want to wake you. Lustre told me that you’re not feeling well, and I wanted to see you. Are you hungry? It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  Mike stood close to his father’s bed.

  “I’m not hungry. Have Cuca make you something to eat. She should be in the kitchen. But before you go, tell me what’s going on with you. I don’t hear from you often.”

  “Of course you do. I write you all the time. I’m here now,” Mike calmly answered.

  “Bah, you only come to Cuba to party, and you seldom write to me. The only way I know you’re still alive is when you cash checks that Lustre mails you.”

  “Father, please, that’s not true. You know how much I love you. Lustre sent me a telegram, and I called him, and he insisted that I should come. I took the first plane. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, it’s just a bad cough.”

  “That’s not what he told me.”

  “You know I don’t sleep well—I haven’t since your mother died. Come closer, let me see you.”

  Mike moved closer to the bed and drew open the mosquito netting and extended his hand. His father clasped Mike’s hands in his own, which were big and covered with sunspots. He coughed and motioned to a glass of water on the night table, topped by a saucer to keep out bugs. Mike gave him the water; he released Mike’s hand and took a small sip.

  “Pass me a candy.” The honey-filled candies, wrapped in gold paper, filled a small bowl next to the glass. “They’re good for me. The honey helps my cough. Dr. Paco says these are the best.”

  Mike tried to smile. Nothing had changed. He sank into his father’s armchair, made of leather and mahogany—cattle and forest, tradition—and waited for his father to get out of bed.

  FERNANDO HAD NOT liked the idea of driving all the way to Havana just to pick up Don Miguel’s son. He had driven in a hot, muggy car for more than ten hours. Mike could have just taken the train or the bus. Fernando was tall, muscular, and had been working on the farm for many years. His skin was jet-black and when he smiled, which was often, the whiteness of his teeth contrasted with the color of his face.

  Cuca had left food for him, and he sat at the dining table covered with a white-and-red checkered oilcloth, joining Ricardo for a simple and hearty meal of rice, red beans, beef jerky, fried plantains, and a dessert of rice pudding served with cinnamon and fresh milk from a big enamel jug. In the corner of the dining area, on a triangular wooden shelf, was a farm-made white farmer’s cheese. The walls displayed five calendars, all showing blonde girls in bikinis advertising American-made products. An old RCA radio, powered by a car battery, blasted the news from Havana. Manuel, who took care of the farm’s show string of cattle and horses, arrived and sat down at the table. Manuel was in his early forties, had a muscular build, more on the heavy side, and strong arms, and sported highly polished Texan boots. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses inside the house and at night. He had strong opinions. All sat on red-painted taburetes covered with cowhides that bore the ubiquitous family cattle brand. Paulino wore a white Filipino coat over a pair of dark trousers. He did not wear socks, and his tennis shoes were worn out. He walked with a swagger as he was passing by to show that he was not another usual farm worker. Cuca brewed coffee in a charcoal-fired burner.

  Manuel asked Fernando, “How’s Mike?”

  “He was asking constantly about Don Miguel. ‘How is he? What’s going on with him? How is he feeling?’ I didn’t tell him much. I didn’t want to upset him.”

  “Do you know why he came?” Manuel asked.

  “No, he said Lustre, the accountant, had called him. He was happy to see me. He asked about all of us. How we were doing. He tried to be nice, but he’s worried about his father’s health. The airport was full of soldiers and police, and he became very angry when the customs inspector stole a carton of his American cigarettes.”

  “He should have known. Why does he buy those when here we have the best tobacco here?” Manuel replied.

  “The old man smokes them, too,” Paulino said.

  Cuca then asked, “Did you have time for lunch?”

  “Yes, we stopped in Matanzas at Don Miguel’s favorite restaurant. Mike insisted that I sit down with him, but I didn’t want to. I was the only Negro in the restaurant. The old Spanish waiter wasn’t happy when he saw me at the table.”

  “How was the service?” Paulino asked, curious about the waiter’s reactions.

  “It was slow,” Fernando remarked with a grin. “After lunch, Mike took over the driving and drove fast. He started asking about the farm, if it had rained, the pastures, the show herd, and the horses.”

  Ricardo interrupted, “Mike should have never left—the old man isn’t the same. He doesn’t enjoy life anymore. He doesn’t even go to
the cattle and horse shows!”

  “I have to take the animals by myself,” Manuel said, shaking his head.

  Paulino laughed, “You don’t care if the old man goes or not. You like telling all the guajiras, ‘These are my horses,’ and then you invite them to see the silver tack and saddles in the saddle room. Hey, do I know you!”

  Manuel smirked, “As if you never played games on them! You think they’ll faint in your arms when you tell them that you’re a doctor!”

  Paulino, smiling, replied, “At least I went to the university.”

  Manuel said, “I am a graduate of the university of life.” He got up, stretched, and reached for his big, dirty felt Texan cowboy hat. “I’m going to turn in. See you in the morning.”

  Everyone else soon left, except Paulino, who cleaned the table with a wet rag. He whistled an old tune:

  Ausencia quiere decir olvido;

  Absence means forgetfulness;

  Las aves quieren volver al nido.

  Birds want to return to their nest.

  MIKE CAME IN a few minutes later and sat down to eat the meal that Cuca had prepared. He ate alone, since his father did not want to leave his room. After he finished, he walked around the batey, and lit a cigar that had the cattle brand of the farm on the ring. Mike walked slowly as he toured the manicured lawn, the rose garden, and the grove with coconut, mango, lime, orange, grapefruit, and avocado trees. He knew he couldn’t express his frustration at what his father had said. He knew how to control himself; it had been part of his training. He was taught to measure everything—the way he spoke, drank, gambled, studied, and loved. As his father often reminded him, avoiding extremes—measure and prudence in all things—had made the family successful.

  Ricardo saw him walking around and came to see him. “Hi, Mike, how was your trip?”

  “Tiring. Say, I’m still worried about Father. What’s going on, Ricardo?”

  “You know I called Lustre. To be blunt, he’s not the same. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t care. I wanted to take him to see Dr. Paco, but he won’t leave the farm. Maybe with you here . . . ”

  “Thanks for calling, Lustre. I know how much you like to take care of him, but he seemed his old self with me tonight.”