La Americana Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Melanie Bowden Simón

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photo: iStock

  ISBN: 978-1-5107-0255-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0256-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Luis and my mom, Martha Parrish McGonigle

  Contents

  Author’s Note/Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Havana

  Chapter 2: Manhattan and Tina Brown’s Talk

  Chapter 3: Gringas in Castro’s Cuba

  Chapter 4: Tick Tock

  Chapter 5: Who’s Afraid of Uncle Sam?

  Chapter 6: Maria Victoria and the Casa Particular

  Chapter 7: Click Clack Go the Tiles

  Chapter 8: Hallmark Moments

  Chapter 9: Advanced Cancer

  Chapter 10: Devastating Blow

  Chapter 11: Old Man and the Sea

  Chapter 12: Path Finder

  Chapter 13: Signs and Symbols

  Chapter 14: Castro the Artist

  Chapter 15: Good-byes

  Chapter 16: Therapy in the Garden

  Chapter 17: Gypsy

  Chapter 18: Freckles

  Chapter 19: La Americana

  Chapter 20: The Kiss

  Chapter 21: Thirty-Six Hours and Counting

  Chapter 22: War

  Chapter 23: Budapest

  Chapter 24: A Mismatched LEGO Piece

  Chapter 25: Lost Along the Danube

  Chapter 26: The Serb

  Chapter 27: Breathe, Mel, Breathe

  Chapter 28: Lost in Translation

  Chapter 29: Wings of an Angel

  Chapter 30: You’re Talking, But I Can’t Hear You

  Chapter 31: Viva La Revolución!

  Chapter 32: Pi-Chi!

  Chapter 33: The Real Deal

  Chapter 34: The Elephant in the Room

  Chapter 35: Grim Reaper

  Chapter 36: Castro, Bush, and the Racy Tango

  Chapter 37: Santo

  Chapter 38: The Lost Boys of Cuba

  Chapter 39: Starstruck

  Chapter 40: Lockout

  Chapter 41: To Mom, Love Princesa

  Chapter 42: Graveside

  Chapter 43: Friends and the Curious Case of the Speed Bump

  Chapter 44: A Havana Wedding and the Canadian Chickens

  Chapter 45: Tobacco, Mangoes, and the Horseback Cafecito

  Chapter 46: Acceptance

  Chapter 47: Nooks, Crannies, and Saying Adios

  Chapter 48: Miami-Bound

  Afterword

  Author’s Note/Acknowledgments

  I am beyond grateful to my family, who has surrounded me with so much love, support, and encouragement always. First and foremost, this includes my dad, Becky, and my brother, Walter, but also all of the Bowden, Pressly, Wylly, Keightley, Spiller, Yingling, Kelly, and McGonigle clans. My mother-in-law, Ana, my sister-in-law, Anabel, and the many other members of my Cuban family have also welcomed and supported me tremendously from the moment I walked into their lives.

  I wouldn’t have a book without my agent and friend, Janice Shay, who took a chance on me, an unknown writer, as did my editor, Julie Ganz, at Skyhorse Publishing. I am profoundly appreciative of their efforts.

  Neil Young, Ricardo DeSoto, Ashley Bowden, and Chia Chong read early versions of my manuscript and offered not only valuable feedback, but encouragement, for which I am so grateful. Initial edits by Polly Powers Stramm helped me whip my manuscript into enough shape to sell it.

  My friends—Allison Wilbur Raddock, Susan Main, and Jacqueline Ballantine—are rock stars, unwavering in their support throughout various stages of my life. And of course, Cynthia Sweet, who made that all-important trip to Cuba with me. To my friends at Talk magazine, you made lasting impressions, probably far more than you’ll ever know. And a big shout-out to the DeSoto, Jimenez, and Cruz families, Melissa Owens, Brittany Zimmerman, my colleagues at Armstrong State University, and Savannah’s superstar creative set, who inspire and encourage me daily.

  Finally, I want to thank Luis and our beautiful children, Ana, Marcos, and Luisito, who give me more joy in life than I ever thought was possible.

  Note: Some names have been changed to protect individuals in Cuba.

  Chapter 1

  Havana

  It was April 2001 when our plane touched down in Havana. Cynthia and I stepped off the plane and into crazy humidity, even by my native Georgian standards. On the concrete, military guards in green directed us to glass doors a few feet away, and I crossed the threshold into a frigid blast of air.

  My nerves were hopping, and the female passport inspector at the bank-teller-like window didn’t help matters. Her steely stare and thick mustache bullied my freckly face, blond hair, and hazel eyes. It was as if the monster under my childhood bed had actually come out and was staring me in the face.

  She looked at the photo, at me, at the photo, and at me again. She nodded and I heard a buzz. I looked back at Cynthia and discreetly signaled with one of my thumbs that I was a go. I turned to push through the skinny, wooden door.

  Cynthia followed my lead, and soon enough we were outside, where it was complete pandemonium, with hundreds of people lining the gate. Mothers, aunts, and sisters gasped and wept, spotting family members and friends. We pushed our way through the locals only to be bombarded by taxi drivers offering their services. We repeatedly shook our heads no.

  While in Cancun, we had spoken to a travel agent who arranged a car service from a Havana hotel to meet us. Through the blur of bodies, we found our guy holding a sign with a jumbled version of my name—MELYANI BOWDOIN.

  Cyn and I slid into the backseat of the black Mercedes and looked out of our respective windows. Our driver was animated and funny, gesticulating wildly, but I couldn’t understand him. Cynthia could because she had lived in various Spanish-speaking countries. I met her during my last semester of college while studying abroad in Spain.

  It had been three years since I had spent time in Madrid, completing a language minor from the University of Georgia. Yet, had it been English that day, I still couldn’t have talked. Mom was gone and sometimes I found it hard just to breathe. So I wrote. Vigorously.

  On the way to Hotel Capri, which is located in a residential neighborhood of Havana called Vedado, we saw tank-like 1950s-era Fords and Chevrolets plowing past small, rusted, slightly more modern cars. At bus stops, passengers piled into the strangest breed of vehicle I had ever seen. The base resembled a San Francisco streetcar attached to the front of an eighteen-wheeler truck. An oversize accordion bridged a second section of the bus to give it Alice in Wonderland proportions. People held on to overhead rings as heavy diesel fumes created a low, gray skyline. Dilapidated buildings in various states lined the small highway. Chickens and cattle went about
their business in overgrown weeds. Suddenly, billboards came at us in three-dimensional proportions.

  VIVA LA REVOLUCION! LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION! FORTY-TWO YEARS OF THE REVOLUTION! WE TRIUMPH WITH SOCIALISM! the signs, scattered throughout the city, screamed in bold yellow and red letters.

  Images of Che Guevara, Cuba’s socialist revolutionary, decorated the city’s concrete with his face on the fronts of buildings, signs, schools, and banners. Even more notably I found myself journaling about a place with no Coca-Cola, no McDonald’s, and no Starbucks. In fact, there weren’t even any advertisements of any kind there, other than the propaganda.

  Arriving at the hotel, we checked in to a room with feeble twin beds that looked as if they came from my grandmother’s attic. The low-to-the-ground mattresses caved in when we plopped down on them. A faded, off-white vanity was positioned in the middle of the room and large windows with open curtains gave us a magnificent ocean view.

  We packed day bags, headed for the door, and walked the short distance to the Malecón, the city’s seawall that borders roughly five miles of Havana’s coastline. Gingerly, we maneuvered along the sidewalk’s concrete pits and falls as whipping air gusts pushed us around like two grown Raggedy Anns. I half stumbled when a ’50s clunker whooshed by, the driver furiously blowing the horn.

  “Hola rubias!” he belted at us, the two blondies. Cyn and I laughed out loud, but quickly snapped our openmouthed grins shut with the onslaught of thick, black car fumes. The Cuban disappeared around the curb with one last emphatic shout-out. “Americanaaaaaas!”

  Siphoning diesel from my nostrils with rapid, Lamaze-style breaths, I shared a chuckle, and then a howl, with Cyn as we were simultaneously flipped around by another wicked ocean bluster. No use in fighting, we took its lead, heading back toward our hotel on the corner of Twenty-first and N. We landed facing Hotel Nacional, a Cuban landmark that is known for former guests like Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Ava Gardner, Frank Sinatra, and their mafia cohorts who rented out entire floors of both Nacional and Capri, where we were staying. Lining the hotel’s corridors are photos of diplomats, royals, and celebrities who continue to go there today.

  Yet, what caught our attention at that particular moment was a single Cocotaxi, which resembles a large, yellow PAC-MAN. An American man on our flight over suggested that we look for the inexpensive and quick ride as a great way to get around Old Havana. We jumped into the back of one, and speaking Spanish for the first time, I asked to go to Havana Vieja.

  The driver, whom I hadn’t given any consideration, turned back to us. Almond-shaped caramel eyes, topped with long butterfly-wing lashes, landed directly on mine. It was an intense, swift heart jump that struck me hard. My whole body tensed in self-defense.

  Chapter 2

  Manhattan and Tina Brown’s Talk

  He introduced himself as Luis and when he did, I thought of my mother. Had she sent this beautiful young man to watch over us?

  My mother, whose story was classic in many ways, grew up in Tampa, Florida, in a middle-class home where education was emphasized. My grandfather Jim, a Gregory Peck baritone who wore large, round glasses perched high over a fair-skinned, Germanic jawline and chiseled cheeks, was a professor and chair of English at the University of South Florida. On his crown was a clean swipe, not an angstrom of hair, and the brimmed hats that hung on the front parlor wooden hat rack were sacred for Saturday morning tennis match coverage. My younger brother, Walter, and I called him Grandy and his Gin Rummy game was legendary. Following chocolate-chip-pancake-and-leftover-London-broil breakfasts during scorching summer visits, he schooled us on ten-card draws, runs, and sequences. Taking turns, we parked at a card table with folding chairs set in the living room, and his deep laugh boomed throughout the house, which smelled of an early-morning Folgers brew, if either of us undermined his game. In his presence, my mom, the eldest of his two girls, was relaxed. They shared a love of language and college football and relished in spirited rivalry. Mom, a die-hard Florida Gators fan, propped her arms in a wide V and in her best reptilian impression, pretended to chomp us from her seat on the sofa while Grandy, an Alabama native, vowed imminent defeat at the hands of his beloved Auburn Tigers.

  From the kitchen, my grandmother, Lorraine, or Grandmomma as we called her, entertained a world of her own. Her lone voice roiled on low like a late-night TV rerun as the faucet ran long after she’d finished washing dishes. With pre-surgery precision, she scrubbed each of her long, slender fingers, pressing along the dorsal veins and then over the top arteries before moving to the blue, spidery arches of her hands. The ceremonial drying towel morphed into a dishrag that gave one last countertop sweep before retiring it to the laundry bin in the garage.

  Standing at the crux of the kitchen and dining room, Grandmomma, a slim-figured former basketball star with cropped, loose white curls, peppered us with light questions about school, sports, and our friends while the sharp glare of plastic, snuggly fit over the living room sofa and chairs, cut through the doorway behind her.

  Sometimes when Grandmomma laughed, she blinked furiously in a maladjusted camera shutter sort of twitch while pinching the side hinge of her oversize eyeglass frames to boost a nose slip. To us, it was a benign gesture, but to my mom it signaled anger. Mom’s impression was dead on, but it only surfaced during rare recounts of her childhood memories.

  At Chamberlain High School, my mom was Marti, an easygoing, popular, and pretty blonde who made mostly As and won spelling bees. But at home she was Martha and under the watchful eye of my grandmother, too skinny. She could have been smarter if she studied more.

  Mom found refuge in Grandy’s library, tucked into the far back corner of their home. The rows of literature, both classic and modern, sat next to the great playwrights and they whispered to her in clear and vibrant tones. She responded in the only way she could—as a teenager, she became an active theater member, playing out their roles as often as possible. She also was a good writer and for years talked about drafting a novel. While an English major at the University of Florida, my mom met my father, Walter, an attractive, honorable young man studying business. He and my mom dated throughout college and married just before he was called to serve in Vietnam. On her own, Mom briefly returned home with her parents and taught high school English. Following my dad’s return a year later, she worked various lightweight secretary jobs, though I’m certain she secretly dreamed of a creative life—eccentricities included—in New York City.

  Yet, life being what it was, and considering the roles for women at that time, my mom settled into married life. Not that it was bad. She was married to a nice and caring man whose focus was his family. Later, I was born and Walter came two and a half years later.

  My mom, Martha Parrish, 1969 (courtesy of Melanie Simón).

  However, in time she and my father had little left in common; while she loved us, she sought personal inspiration in local theaters. My father worked vigorously in banking, seeking solace in his children and nature in any free time he could muster. They divorced when I was ten. My father remarried Becky, who became a very important person in my life, a second mother. Mom and I eventually moved to Atlanta, which was a pit stop on her way to the bright and alluring lights of New York. When I graduated from high school, she made her last leap. After a year of freelance PR jobs in the city, she landed a full-time one with David Mamet’s nonprofit organization, the TADA! Youth Theater on the Lower West Side of Manhattan. Perks included preview theater tickets, which she gobbled up. Routinely, she shared invites with me, her evergreen baby girl who visited during college and later when I settled into New York in 1999.

  I loved every second, sitting in the darkened, iconic settings on and off-Broadway with my mom. She introduced me to the subtle and dry wit of Tony winners Frank Wood and Edie Falco in Side Man; the dysfunctional, mad genius of John Leguizamo in Spic-O-Rama; and the prim, fluid voices of Patti Lupone, Audra McDonald, and Brian Stokes Mitchell that burrowed and popped under my skin. I erupte
d at the Ambassador Theater on West Forty-ninth when Savion Glover invited audience members to the toe-tapped wooden side stage during “Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk.” Our legs crunched in early-twentieth-century architecture, I leaped over my mom and neighboring patrons in a clumsy dash to the stage where I planted myself directly behind Savion, who stopped time with his raw, poetic, and powerhouse foot thrusts and heel slaps. I’m not a tapper, but I had to be there, to be a part of that energy, and I carried the nearly religious experience back to the tiny seat row where my mom waited for me, wearing the same wild look of joy on her face. It was clear then that as a young adult, I had become her extension, playing out inspired bursts that she had learned to cap in her childhood home.

  High off the performances, we always shared dinner, offering praise or potshots. With one hand bridged along the side of her face, Mom held a chardonnay stem with the other and twinkled in a post-theater glow.

  A few years later when she scored the PR director position for the Yale School of Drama and its professional in-house group, the Yale Repertory Theatre, it was a high mark. She was able to promote visiting alumni like Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver, as well as bold and temperamental playwrights like John Guare, who directed Laura Linney in Landscape of the Body.

  While there she married Jim McGonigle, a whip-smart and kind man seventeen years her senior, after a meet-up at the Lambs Club in Manhattan. Age apart, they complemented each other well with a love of solid performances, travel, and mild smart-ass satire. She was the calm to his feisty and after her early retirement from Yale, they shuttled back and forth between their Morristown, New Jersey, home and Manhattan apartment. So when I moved to New York in March 1999 as a newbie University of Georgia graduate, to my delight, this meant that I was back within close proximity to Mom. With fresh journalism and Spanish degrees in hand, I had packed my Honda Civic with a mix of hand-me-down bedsheets, lamps, and side tables, as well as the heaviest clothes from my closet. I knew nights would still be cold once I crossed the Virginia line.