La Americana Read online

  I wasn’t concerned about how I would live in Argentina. I’d figure it out. Besides, I had a little money left to me from my mom and fifty thousand Delta miles that Becky, my second mother, gave to me, tied with a thick ribbon of sympathy.

  My family had their doubts. What was I going to do when I landed? Where would I live? Could I make money? Was it safe?

  My father, whom we facetiously refer to as the professional worrier, didn’t grill me. Later I heard from family friends that he was calling anyone and everyone he knew with connections to Argentina or South America to ask all of those same questions. But he gave me my space and let me make my own decisions, as he always has, in his quiet way.

  As I planned my trip and became more excited, I wondered, as I had several times in the previous months, if Luis was in Italy with his sister. If so, why hadn’t he been in touch? My gut told me he was sincere and that he would call or write to me when he could. Yet, what I couldn’t figure out was why he continued to circle in my head months later if I wasn’t interested in him.

  Chapter 18

  Freckles

  October 2001

  Luis sat in one of two wooden rocking chairs in his living room, staring out of the window.

  His mom walked in the room and watched him for a good sixty seconds or so.

  “You’re thinking about Freckles, aren’t you?” she said.

  Luis turned toward her and smiled.

  Chapter 19

  La Americana

  Two weeks later

  I don’t know why I picked up the phone to place the call. I could barely speak Spanish anymore, but it was as if I was on some screwy form of autopilot and I couldn’t put the phone down.

  Shit, shit, shit, the phone is ringing. My heart raced.

  “Dime,” a man’s voice said.

  Ahh, ah, ah, I wanted to hang up, but didn’t.

  “Tell me,” is how his answer literally translates, and this sounded so rude to me at the time.

  I asked for Luis.

  The man spoke very fast, but I was able to pull short groupings of words: Él no está aquí and dos semanas.

  Luis isn’t here and two weeks. What did that mean? I asked if he was in Italy.

  “No.”

  “OK, thank you,” and I hung up.

  I was shaking, but I knew that I would call back in two weeks.

  ***

  The end of October

  Luis picked up the phone, in a near whisper.

  “Hola. Luis?”

  “Sí. Quién es?”

  “This is Melanie, la Americana …” Dying, I was dying.

  Beyond that I don’t know what I said specifically, but he answered in short bits. I had made a terrible mistake in calling. He wasn’t interested in talking to me. What was I thinking?

  In an uncomfortable linger, waiting for the moment to hang up and never call again, he said, “I’m glad you called.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  His shyness dominated for some time, but eventually he opened up as we began to email and call on occasion over the next three months. I learned that the Italian embassy had denied his visa for no apparent reason.

  Internet access wasn’t easy for him. He had to go to an office where he knew someone and pay one US dollar every time he wanted to use the Internet. I did the math based on Cuban salaries and knew that was a lot of money.

  Our exchanges were casual and brief. I never put much emphasis on where they would lead us. I was still excited about going to Argentina. By early January, however, Buenos Aires was a fiery mess. Corruption and political unrest had escalated into riots. The country plowed through five pundits in two weeks and fires plagued the city. The reality of a severe economic depression became all too real as I watched clips of angry citizens, wrapped around city blocks, demanding their money from banks.

  My family and friends inundated me with emails and phone calls, pleading with me not to go.

  Adventurous I am, but stupid I’m not.

  Airlines released identical statements that all tickets to Argentina would be refunded. I had time to reroute. My father suggested that I talk to a friend and customer of his who has business interests in Budapest, Hungary. We had lunch. He told me how exciting the city had become with its people, the opera and classical music houses, the bath houses, and the food. I left intrigued.

  Not a week later, my brother connected me with a friend of his who attended medical school on the outskirts of Budapest. We all got together for dinner and it was a virtual repeat of the conversation I had days earlier. That night I went home and called Delta to change my ticket from Buenos Aires to Budapest, set to leave in March.

  Those in my immediate group were a little stunned when I mentioned the formerly communist city, since I had no real connection to it, nor had I talked about it before. I explained that while my thoughts were to go to Paris after Argentina fell, I thought it might be interesting to venture into unchartered territory.

  Luis thought it sounded interesting, though he knew little about the country himself. Then he asked me if I might want to visit Cuba again before I left for Europe.

  I paused.

  Why not? At the time, my world sought any direction remotely appealing to me.

  We planned for a visit in February, as I was first going to an all-girls orphanage, Las Rosas Pequeñas, or the Little Roses, in Honduras. This was a gift from my sweet aunt Jane, who offered to take me on the trip with her and a small group from her church. My aunt Margaret gave up her spot and handed it to my friend, Zia.

  Within the group of missionaries, their own acts of kindness were aimed at me. In what was staged diversion, the trip would overlap the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death. My aunts never said a word, but I knew this was their intent. I accepted the invitation, welcoming the chance to be in a different environment during that time.

  The second week of January 2002, I found myself on a plane, much too early to be awake, with a fantastic sunrise that painted the path to Honduras. There were twelve of us ranging in age from twenty-one to seventy, including Aunt Jane, Zia, and me.

  The orphanage’s compound was surrounded by a twelve-foot concrete wall, topped with barbed wire. Armed guards opened the gate for the van, which had collected us at the airport. We were greeted by the school’s founder, who offered a simple, but decent meal. A brief roundabout told us about the school and home for about eighty-five young girls who had essentially been tossed away, as is frequently the case, she said. This was at that time the only orphanage of its kind in the country, with all others designated for boys.

  Though it may not have been evident to the naked eye, many of the girls had horrific childhoods. One girl, Marta, had lived in an apple crate for eighteen months and drank only coconut milk. She was too small for a seven-year-old girl. Tania was abandoned twice; others were forced into prostitution as young as five and six.

  Despite it all, the founder explained, the girls were playful, spirited, and always open to visitors. They were being raised with love and care by fellow Hondurans and volunteers from around the world who were taking year-long sabbaticals with room and board as their only pay. Most of the orphanage’s funds were provided by donations and fund-raising efforts. The school’s founder spoke around the world, which was how she had found my family’s church.

  As we walked up the flight of stairs and onto the platform at the entrance of our living quarters, young girls in their school uniforms played outside with a green-mountain backdrop. Inside, the main room was simple and clean with a table and chairs, sofa, TV, coffeemaker, and a few magazines. Two bedrooms were outfitted with four sets of bunk beds. One bathroom shot off the main room. I was reminded of a slightly more adult version of the North Carolina camp where I once worked as a counselor.

  The next couple of days were spent getting to know the girls, who were exactly as the director had described—lively, fun, and nearly exempt from any outward appearance of difficult past experien
ces. They were excited to be with us and quickly invited us into their games, their meals, and their computer stations, equipped with slow dial-up. The older girls liked to write to past visitors in the United States and were eager to practice English.

  It was only when salsa blasted from boom boxes inside the gymnasium that I sensed something of a past. Some of the girls, no taller than my knee, were as skilled with their moves as the Cuban women who danced in Havana’s nightclubs. It was a type of sexuality I had never seen in such small children.

  Zia, who was the only young male on the trip, became a virtual campus rock star. Disturbingly mature sexual advancements, betraying the girls’ stick figures and ponytailed innocence, emerged as they aggressively pursued him. At one point we had to hide him in the apartment after they chased him around the compound.

  Friday, January 18 was a spectacular morning. The foliage of the mountains was faint but apparent, as the peaks had been swallowed by deep, vast clouds.

  Little birds, no bigger than my thumb, sat along the compound’s wall edge in front of me and tweeted wildly. Eileen, a lovely English woman with us, told me that the melodious blackbird was the one making all the noise. A bird book in hand, she excitedly offered details about the yellow-bellied bird and his friend, a bananaquit she thought, who flurried in front of us and took their places on the barbed wire.

  When we returned from morning play with the girls, one of the women in our group who had stayed behind was watching CNN. I sat on the couch to watch for a moment when the reporter announced that Tina Brown’s Talk magazine had officially folded.

  In a solid stroke, it was fast rewind to New York with its ups, downs, and the doors that had opened and closed there. There was my devastation at leaving Talk and New York and the sudden demise of my future that had been stolen from me. I had felt like a failure when I left. My life was thrust outside Manhattan’s publishing world, the epicenter of my universe. Or so I thought at that time.

  Yet, as I listened to commentary about presumed reasons for the magazine’s downfall, I felt surprisingly removed from that time in my life and for all the emphasis that I had placed upon it. Now I was in the middle of Central America, one day before the year anniversary of my mom’s death, and my perspective was no longer one-dimensional. My New York experience was not a dead, hallowed dream that would remain unfulfilled. Instead, it was part of my development. Tina Brown and my friends at Talk were also moving on. In an instant, I didn’t feel so isolated in my experience.

  With validation, a chapter in my professional life closed peacefully in simple bananaquit surroundings.

  A few days later, I went home grateful for the trip and for the chance to be in a different setting on the anniversary of my mom’s death. Being with the girls, who chose to laugh and play and learn despite all they had endured, gave me strength and appreciation for what I did have. Like the girls, I didn’t have my mother, but I did have a vast stable of love and support.

  When I got back to Savannah, I did laundry and repacked, this time for Cuba. Six days on the island and then I would head for Europe to look for a job that would carry me after my mother’s small inheritance ran out. With no calendar, no clock, and no future to speak of, that was all mine to create.

  Chapter 20

  The Kiss

  It wasn’t until I descended into José Martí Airport that I began to physically shake.

  What am I doing in Cuba? Alone!

  Visiting a man I knew little about was a stretch, even for me. Ever the independent American, I insisted to Luis that he didn’t need to pick me up from the airport. I would take a cab. When I arrived at his house and climbed six flights of stairs carrying a heavy suitcase, I was sorry I had succumbed to my feminist ways.

  I was exhausted and out of breath by floor six and paused at the top of the stairs. I hoped my flushed cheeks and 3-D freckles would return to normal before stepping through his door. Slowly I walked the long hallway until I reached the slightly familiar door to the apartment, which was wide open.

  I hesitated. Again, what am I doing visiting a man in Cuba, whom I barely know?

  Yet, there I was. I walked in and saw Luis’s mom, Ana, on the sofa and another young woman rocking in a chair. Ana stood up and came to give me a kiss on the cheek. I suddenly realized that Luis’s sister, Anabel, whose photograph I had seen on my first trip, also was in the room. She glanced at me and looked away.

  I had made a mistake. Luis was nowhere in sight and this was a terrible, terrible mistake. Ana motioned for me to sit in the rocking chair so that my back faced the door. I nodded and sat down, just after pushing my large suitcase to the wall.

  Quiet. There was an awkward, long quiet. Ana offered coffee.

  “Si, gracias.” Espresso was perhaps not the most idyllic drink for me at that particular moment, as my hands wouldn’t stop trembling as it was, but it would give me something to do.

  Anabel got out of her chair and went to the kitchen.

  Ana spoke to me and I didn’t understand much. She tried again, I sorted out the best I could, and replied in choppy español. Anabel brought in the delicious coffee, but after two sips I was finished and put the doll-size saucer and cup on the table in front of me.

  I nodded my head at Ana. “Gracias.”

  “Por nada.” You’re welcome.

  I smiled, she smiled. I took a deep breath and grinned again. I realized that I was vigorously bouncing the back of my right knee on top of my left leg and I put my palms over my legs to curb the nervous gesture.

  A voice was suddenly behind me at the door. I looked back and it was Luis, who was wearing shorts but no shirt. He was very tan and his hair was all over the place. Contrary to his put together demeanor, it was apparent he had been at the beach.

  I stood up and smiled. He came straight to me.

  “Hola,” and he kissed me on the cheek. He smelled like sand and beach and sun. He looked like the sun. He was, in fact, more strikingly handsome to me than before.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Bien,” I said, which was a total and complete lie.

  His Spanish continued at a deliberately slower pace, though this would not be the case with anyone else in Cuba.

  “Come on, let’s go upstairs, you can put your bag up there. You get my room.”

  “OK.”

  He grabbed my suitcase (with tremendous ease, I might add) and jumped up the stairs, skipping every other step. His room sat off to the right at the top of stairs.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower, OK?”

  “Está bien,” and I nodded, relieved to be upstairs and not in the pressure cooker below.

  His shower was fast indeed and he walked into the room in a pair of jeans, as I sat on the bed.

  Luis went to the closet to look for a shirt. His hair was pushed back. He was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. I had to tell myself it was OK to breathe. I told my heart it had to pump.

  He asked me how my flight was, if I got to the house easily. “Yes, fine,” I said in my best efforts at Spanish. Much to my chagrin, I knew that my Georgia lilt would never completely disappear.

  “Your Spanish is much better than I remember.”

  I looked down at the bed. “Thanks.”

  “You didn’t talk very much the last time you were here.”

  My eyes shifted to him: “I know.”

  I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and Anabel appeared with a tray full of cheese, fruit, and sweets.

  She plopped down in front of me. “Quieres?” she asked.

  Would you like some?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I was surprised by her newfound interest in me. Maybe it had been her nerves, too, downstairs. But whatever it was, it was gone and she was suddenly very pleasant.

  I picked up a cracker with cream cheese and guayaba, a local fruit that is often made into a thick paste and used as a dessert. It was delicious, but I was embarrassed to say so.

  We were all quie
t.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” Luis asked, sliding a short-sleeved, red Lacoste shirt over his head.

  He wore the color powerfully and it caught me off guard. I nodded yes as a surge of energy shot from my chest into my ears. Worried that I might emit a flashing signal if I appeared too eager, I sat very still in my attempt to express confidence and composure.

  Frankly, I was thrilled to go walk and do something, anything, that didn’t solely rely on language. I followed Luis down the long flight of steps and outside. We walked side by side to the Malecón, where waves crashed over the sea wall and sprayed into the street.

  Eventually we stopped walking and Luis popped up on the wall in a quick hand catapult and then brushed his palms together to clear off any mess. He extended his right hand, which I grabbed firmly, trying not to slip from his grip, as I propelled up with my right arm and pushed from my left hand, stationed on the rough concrete surface.

  The gray top was cool on the underside of my legs and as we turned toward each other, I carefully folded and looped my legs, ending in a semi-slouched lotus pose. There were fishermen scattered among the black rocks below us and it had just gone dark, but there were a few distant streetlamps that gave us a few light streams to see each other.

  “Nervous coming to Cuba?” Luis asked carefully.

  I nodded yes.

  “I was shaking through passport control,” and lifted and moved my hands in show. I wasn’t entirely sure he understood my Spanish and the physical gestures offered backup. “Luggage took a long time, but once I got outside it was OK.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here, in front of me,” he said, his eyes never swaying from mine.

  “I know, I know. Es loco,” I returned.

  There was small talk about going to the beach and possibly the western countryside, Pinar del Río, as I studied Luis’s lips, second-hand interpreters of Cuba’s rhythmic and slangy words. I told him about home and my family in Savannah, as his hands moved to the tops of mine and then slowly wound around my palms in a warm, cocooned grip. I felt safe when he touched me and my body decompressed in an instant.