Leaving Glorytown (6 page)

“How come you guys didn't kick their butts?” I asked.

“Eduar!” Mama said sharply. “Such language!”

“Because,” Papa said wearily, “I would get arrested. So would all the men on San Carlos Street. The army would come and yank us out of our beds. They would take us to prison, and who knows when you would see me again? And how would you eat while I was gone? Who would protect you?”

“But you're not protecting us now!” I yelled. “You're just sitting on
the porch like a bunch of scaredy-cats! What's the matter with you guys, anyway? Why don't you teach them a lesson?”

“Eduardo Francisco Calcines, you are going to get the whipping of a lifetime!” Mama said, her voice rising.

“Concha, please,” Papa said. “I understand what the boy is saying. He's right to wonder why we don't defend ourselves. What you have to understand, Eduar, is that there are more ways of fighting back than just using your fists. If you refuse to play the game by the only rules they understand, then they can't beat you. See?”

“No,” I said, because it seemed to me they were beating us before we even had a chance to play.

“Look at it this way. Do you want Papa to get arrested?”

“No.”

“Of course not. That's why we didn't fight them. Who cares about a few insults? Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me.”

I had heard that one before, and I thought it was a load of manure. Names
did
hurt—a lot. Especially when they were directed at the people I loved. But I was beginning to understand what Papa was saying. I didn't agree with him—I was too young to grasp the subtleties of the situation. In later years, however, I would remember the wisdom of Papa's words, and I would be grateful for them. For now, it was better to ignore the thugs and pretend nothing was happening.

But something
was
happening. Night after night, the gangs roved up and down San Carlos Street, just waiting for the chance to stomp someone to a pulp and get him sent to prison.

The discussion about our family leaving Cuba was ongoing, and a few nights later, Abuela Ana and Abuelo Julian came over to listen and offer their views, which were always for freedom.

“Go,” Abuela said. “Get the children out of this hell. Take them where they will have a chance.”

Abuelo said nothing. It seemed from the look on his face, that his heart was breaking. The families closest to him and Abuela were the most serious about leaving. They included Tío William, Tía Carmen, and their two sons; tiny Tía Dinorah and her husband, the bald-headed and hilarious Tío Arturo, and little daughter Cary—their son Arturito was already in America through an arrangement with the Catholic church; wild and crazy Tío Cholu, his gentle wife, Tata, and their five children; the stocky and fiery Tía Aida, her bird-loving husband, Yeyo, and their two sons, my pal Luis and his brother Ernesto; my godmother Magalys, her handsome husband, Sergio, son, Armando, and daughter, Lilly; and, of course, my family: Mama, Papa, Esther, and myself. Including Arturito, that was twenty-seven people in all.

Abuelo and Abuela had seven other children with large families of their own, and they had all decided to stay and wait it out. I knew that my grandparents would never leave Cuba. They had grown too old to start over in America.

My world was disappearing fast. Turmoil swirled around me: death, imprisonment, fear, whispered conversations, hunger, and sleeplessness. I was sliding down a dark hole with nothing to hold on to. Little remained constant. There was Pichilingo, my beloved rooster, and the rooftop in Abuela's yard, where I still believed I would be safe no matter what. But everything else was becoming unfamiliar.

T
o fill the nighttime hours, Papa told Esther and me stories of when he was a boy, and I loved to escape into his world.

“Once upon a time, niños, I was nothing more than a
guajirito
, a poor little country boy. I was the sixteenth child born to my mother,” Papa would tell us, “and I was the youngest boy. When my papa died, I had to drop out of the third grade and go to work.”

“You did?” I asked. I had heard this story before, but I always pretended it was the first time.

“Yes. But I never felt sorry for myself. It was my lot in life, and my mother, your abuela Petra, pushed me along as well as my brothers and sisters, never allowing any one of us to feel sorry for ourselves. She was a strong and strict woman who smoked cigars and raised all of us by herself; we all became good men and women with families of our own. I'm sorry we didn't visit her very often and you didn't really get to know her before she died last year. You know something?” Papa asked. “Most of us stayed here in Cienfuegos because that was your abuela Petra's wish. We never had much while growing up, but now look at
me—I have a beautiful young wife, a healthy little family, and a nice house to live in. I am truly a real king.”

“Does that mean I'm a prince?”

“Yes, it does!” Papa declared, pleased with this notion. “Eduar, you are the prince of Glorytown! And Esther is the princess!”

Esther and I grinned at each other. We hadn't known we were royalty.

Story time wasn't limited to the evenings. In summer, when the heat was so thick you could have spread it on a piece of pumpernickel bread, Papa often came home from work for lunch and an afternoon siesta. Esther and I would pile next to him in bed as he tried to rest, begging him to tell us just one story.

“Let me sleep!” he'd groan. “It's hot, and I'm tired! I've been driving since before dawn!”

Papa and Tío Cholu got up at three or four in the morning during the summer so they could make their first rounds before the heat set in. By lunchtime, they had already put in an eight-hour day, and they had more work ahead of them in the afternoon.

But we were merciless.

“Just one!” I'd beg. “Come on, Papa! Please! Tell us about when your papa died and you came to Cienfuegos!”

“All right, all right! Let me see . . . Well, I remember that terrible day all too well,” he said. “That heartless plantation owner threw us all out of our house, if you can imagine someone doing a thing like that.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Because he was greedy, and all he cared about was money.”

“Couldn't your brothers work on the plantation?”

“The plantation owner needed my father's expertise,” said Papa, “and when he died, the owner wanted to replace him with someone else. None of my brothers had my father's experience in the fields. So he told us we had to go.”

“Then what did you do?”

“You know what we did!”

“Tell us anyway!”

“We walked all the way to Cienfuegos, and when we got here, I dropped out of school forever.”

That line was one of my favorite parts of the story.

“I want to drop out of school, too!” I said. Already, though I had only finished third grade, school and I had a tumultuous relationship. God did not make me to sit still in a classroom, I believed, and my marks were unfortunate proof of that.

But Papa said, “No, Eduar. I had no choice. You do. And if I ever hear you talk about dropping out of school again, I will burn your bottom, m'entiendes?”

“Yes, Papa. Why did you have to drop out, then?”

“Because I had to get a job.”

“What job?”

“My first job was delivering bread. Your tío Amado and I got up at three in the morning and worked until dark. I didn't mind. I liked to work. And if I didn't have that bread route, I never would have met Ritica Suares del Villar—better known as Ritica la Cubanita.”

“Who is that?”

“Oh, Ritica was famous. She was really old when I met her. She had a little farm with a few cows, which the government had given her as a reward for her patriotic service. She took a liking to me, so she gave me
extra work cleaning out the stalls. And then, one day, she started telling me stories.”

“What about?”

“The War of Independence against the Spanish.”

This was another favorite part for me. Anything to do with war was interesting—as long as it wasn't happening right here and now.

Papa settled back into his pillow, giving up on sleep for the time being.

“It happened a long time ago, when Ritica was just a young woman,” he said. “She used to feed the soldiers and make them bandages, and she also helped make the first Cuban flag. I called Ritica my ‘second mother,' because my own mother had so many other children to look after she barely had any time for me. I spent a lot of time with Ritica.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No, but she made it to one hundred and two,” Papa said.

“What! How did she manage that?”

“By believing in God, country, and family,” said Papa, rolling over. “And by letting her papa take his naps in the afternoons. Now run along and let me sleep!”

“But wait, Papa. Was Ritica the reason you didn't become a Communist?”

Papa looked at me, his gaze steady and serious.

“Niño, remember what I just told you about what Ritica believed in?”

“Yes, Papa. She believed in God, country, and family.”

“Well, so do I. The Communists don't believe in anything, except power and control. That's why I didn't become a Communist.”

“Tell us one more story, Papa,” Esther said. “Tell us ‘Dos Gardenias'!”

“Concha, will you come get these two?” Papa yelled.

“No!” Mama said from the next room. “I want to hear how you tell this one!”

“Ah, I'm surrounded,” Papa said, rolling once more onto his back and cushioning his head on his arms. “So, you want to hear ‘Dos Gardenias' again?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, here it comes. Once, a long time ago, before either of you was born, I overheard Mama say to her sister—”

“Which sister?” Esther asked.

“Tía Violeta,” Papa said, pulling her nose. “So that day I overheard Mama say to Tía Violeta that she was going to go to the beach. Well, when I heard that, I got my brother—”

“Which brother?” I asked.

“Tío Amado, as if you didn't know. And I said, ‘Listen, Amado, how about we follow along?' Of course he agreed, because he knew how in love with your mama I was. Did you hear that, Conchita?”

“Yes, Felo,” Mama said, sounding pleased. “Keep going.”

“You could rent rowboats at this place,” Papa continued, “and Mama and Tía Violeta went out in one boat. So I said to Amado, ‘Let's go out in another one.' And we rowed and rowed.”

“Are you a fast rower?” I asked.

“The fastest in all of Cuba,” said Papa.

“Wow!” I said.

“Why did you row after her?” Esther asked. “Were you trying to catch her?”

“Yes! Because she was so beautiful, and I was in love with her. Did you hear that, Concha?”

“Yes, Felo,” Mama said. “Keep going.”

“And so finally we got up to her boat, and I could see how the wind was moving through her hair, and the sun was making her skin glow, and her eyes were sparkling—just like the surface of the sea, which was so beautiful that day, like a million diamonds! And that, my niños, was when I really fell in love with her, hook, line, and sinker!”

“And so what did you do?” I asked.

“And so I did what any red-blooded Cuban man would do in my situation. I sang her a love song!”

“Yay! Sing it! Sing it!” cried Esther.

Papa cleared his throat, then burst into song:

 

Dos gardenias para ti,
con ellas quiero decir
te quiero, te adore, mi vida.
Ponles toda tu atenci
ó
n
porque son tu coraz
ó
n y el mio.

 

This was a poetic and romantic song, which translates:

 

Two gardenias for you,
with them I want to say
I love you, I adore you, my darling.
Give them all of your attention
Because they are your heart and mine.

 

At that point, Esther and I burst into mad applause, and Mama came in to reward Papa for his performance with a big kiss.

“Did I get the story right?” he asked Mama.

“Close enough, Felo,” she said. “Close enough.”

I always loved Papa's stories of the old days. I would have liked to meet someone as interesting as Ritica la Cubanita, but the only old ladies I knew were Abuela, whose stories I had heard a million times, and La Natividad, the crazy old lady at the end of San Carlos Street who screeched at every small boy she saw and practiced black magic in her house. It was whispered that even the C.D.R. lady on our block was afraid of La Natividad. There was no way I was going to knock on her door. I would probably get turned into a bat for my trouble.

M
y parents saw it as their job to protect us from the harsh realities of the Revolution. Of course, Esther and I sensed their anxiety, anyway. But I had learned by now that it had nothing to do with whether or not I was a good boy. Rather, it was all about Fidel and his minions. What would they do next? We could only wait and see. There was no way to prepare for the challenges life was going to throw at us, and that made even me feel helpless. Then early in 1965, the undiinkable happened.