Leaving Glorytown (23 page)

Soon I heard Papa moving about the house as he made himself some of the bitter Russian tea he was forced to drink when our monthly coffee ration ran out and the new jars hadn't arrived. Then he came outside and sat with me on the front step.

“Happy birthday, niño,” he said.

“Thanks, Papa.”

“Fourteen now! I can't believe it. Soon you'll be a man.” He took a sip of tea and made a face.

“Soon I'll be drafted, you mean,” I said. “My very next birthday, they're going to come for me. And if that stupid telegram doesn't get here in the next six months, it will be too late, anyway.”

Papa shook his head. “No, niño. We'll be gone by then.”

“You say that every year.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You say that every year, too!”

Papa smiled. “You have the memory of an elephant,” he said. “Let's not worry about anything today. Just enjoy the feeling of being fourteen. Here, I got you a little something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an object that he kept hidden in his hand.

I held my hand out. He dropped a crumpled piece of green paper onto my palm. Carefully, I unfolded it and held it up to examine it. “What is it?”

“It's an American dollar bill.”

I'd never seen American money before. It looked like a message from a different planet.

“Wow! Where did you get this?” I asked.

“I found it when I was cleaning a street downtown. Someone must have dropped it. I've been saving it for you.”

“But where can I spend it?”

“Don't spend it! Save it. Think of it as a good luck charm. If you keep it with you, it will remind you of where we're going. Positive thinking has real power, niño. If you want something to happen bad enough, it will.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

“You're welcome. So, what will you do today, on your special day?”

I shrugged. “Nothing different, I guess. The boys and I will hang out in front of the theater like always.”

“Well, don't flash that dollar bill around. You can show it to your friends if you want, but make sure no one else sees it, especially the C.D.R. Otherwise, you might have some explaining to do.”

“Okay, Papa,” I said.

But I had no intention of showing the money to the boys. I would keep it safe in my pocket, and once in a while I would touch it, just to remind myself that if Papa hadn't given up yet, then neither would I.

Rolando had failed the sixth grade yet again. He now stood at least six inches taller than everyone else in his class, and the shame he felt at being lumped in with a group of babies when he himself was starting to shave had become too much for him to take. He was starting to act really strange.

“Rolando, man, I don't get it,” I told him. “You're not stupid. You're the best chess player around. You can even beat your teachers. What's the matter with you? Why can't you pass the sixth grade?”

“That's easy for you to say,” he snapped. “You've got your whole future to look forward to! What reason do I have to study? None!”

“You don't know what the future holds,” I objected. “Anything could happen. You just don't know!”

“I don't care what happens,” Rolando said. “I just show up to class and sit there. I don't care if I pass or not. I'm going into the army soon, anyway. Maybe I'll kill myself.”

“Rolando! Don't say that!”

“What? Who cares? Why shouldn't I? I can starve to death as a civilian or I can get shot as a soldier. Or I can take matters into my own hands. That's my right. It's my life.”

“Suicide is a sin!”

“Have you forgotten?” Rolando sneered. “God doesn't exist anymore, remember? Fidel says so. So there is no such thing as sin.”

Sometimes I felt as if I didn't know Rolando at all anymore.

At least I was a ninth grader now, which meant deliverance from Señora Santana and her broken glasses. Now I could walk by her classroom with relief instead of dread. True, she still glared at me sometimes from the doorway, but I just ignored her. I had new teachers this year, and though they were just as disdainful of my family's political position, they didn't go out of their way to make my life miserable. I wasn't worth their time. They simply stuck me in the back of the room and forgot about me. That was just fine. I was free to stare out the window and daydream about girls, food, and freedom.

Olga and I barely even glanced at each other in the hallway now. I'd long since moved on. Besides, Olga had joined the Young Pioneers, the Communists' national youth organization, and she wore the bright red neckerchief with pride. To me, that neckerchief seemed like a collar, a
symbol of submission. It was like announcing you had given up thinking for yourself. Even if she'd come crawling back to me on her hands and knees, begging me to take her back, I would have refused. I would have been ashamed to be seen with such a girl on my arm.

In the absence of any particularly cruel teachers, life had become tolerable again. October and November passed quickly. Now I had a new date to fear: April 4, 1970. That day I would turn fourteen and a half. I was going to have to begin plotting my escape much sooner than that. There was no time to lose.

I had a plan, so secret I hadn't even told my friends about it. If the telegram didn't come, I would try to escape to America. I would go alone, for never in a million years would I have wanted my parents or sister to attempt such a thing. I didn't want the boys coming along, either. If I was going to die, I didn't want to take anyone with me.

It was impossible for Cubans to get access to good maps, especially maps of America. But there was a globe in one of my classrooms, and I would study it, staring at the tiny sliver of water that separated Cuba from Florida, imagining how easy it would be to cross it. I knew that the current went from south to north, and that if I could just make it far enough out to sea, I could drift to safety. I knew also that I'd have to bring plenty of water, and something to shield myself from the sun. As far as the sharks went, I would just have to trust that they would find better pickings than my skinny little self.

But the one thing I hadn't figured out yet was my flotation device. Would it be an inner tube? Should I try to put together some kind of raft? Everything was in such short supply that it wasn't possible to gather even empty milk jugs or pieces of scrap lumber. The more I
thought about it, the more I realized that there was really only one practical solution: I would have to steal a boat. And the only boat I knew of belonged to a kid in my class. We called him Manzana, short for Cara de Manzana, or Appleface, because he spent so much time fishing his face was always sunburned red like an apple.

One day in early December, managing to elude both my family and the boys, I went down to the beach where Manzana kept his skiff. Manzana used the boat to go fishing early in the morning, before school. The authorities allowed him to continue his fishing because he was not quite right in the head—too simple, they felt, to try to escape. The skiff was anchored in a secluded area, and there was never anyone around. If I timed it right, I could slip down to the beach at dusk, weigh anchor, and head northwest. That I had never sailed before in my life was no deterrent. How hard could it be? I would be gone before anyone noticed, the navy wouldn't bother with me if they thought I was a simple fisherman, and I would be in Florida by the next morning. It seemed like a foolproof plan. Now all I needed to do was decide when to go. Part of me said it made no sense to wait any longer. Obviously, the telegram wasn't coming.

But I was scared. Several times I went down to the beach just to look at the boat. Even in the light surf that caressed the shore, it bobbed like a cork. How would it handle in the Straits of Florida? What would I do if it sprang a leak? How would I know which way to steer?

A couple of times, I gathered enough courage to wade out into the surf and rest my hand on the gunwales, wondering if I should just go ahead and do it right then and there. But I couldn't even bring myself to crawl over the side. Why not? What was wrong with me?

Finally, I made my decision. My departure window would be the last two weeks of March. If the telegram hadn't come by then, I would steal the boat and make a run for it.

School let out for winter break on December 19. That Sunday, I went to Abuela Ana and Abuelo Julian's house. Abuela had made a special treat for me called
nata
. This was a dish of cream and sugar, and she could prepare it only when she had fresh milk—in other words, hardly ever. I had loved nata since I was a small boy, and I sat now on the living room floor eating it out of a bowl, scarcely pausing to wipe my mouth.

“You know what today is, niño?” asked Abuelo.

“Noche Buena?”

“No, Noche Buena is on the twenty-fourth. Today is the winter solstice. The shortest day of the year.”

“So?”

“So if you listen tonight, you'll hear the santeros starting up again with their drums and their singing. This used to be an important holiday, long before the Communists came along. Long before Christianity, even. The old ones used to have special ceremonies on this day to awaken the sun from its long sleep. They believed that the sun was a god, you see, and they worried that if they didn't make a lot of noise he would stay sleeping forever, and no crops would grow anymore.”

“Didn't they notice that the days got longer again even if they didn't have any ceremonies?”

My grandparents exchanged amused glances.

“Well, they weren't stupid,” said Abuela. “But their ceremonies were important to them. Just like going to Mass used to be for us.”

“Well, Abuela, those days are over.”

“Yes, but they will come again.”

I shrugged. I had long since given up hoping for change.

“You can still hold important days in your heart,” Abuelo told me. “Days such as the birth of Jesus.”

“Well, what's the point of that?”

“The point is that even though we may forget Him, He will not forget us, niño.”

“Okay, Abuelo!” I said. “I'll keep that in mind the next time I have to spend four hours in line for a loaf of hard bread.”

“Good,” said Abuelo, oblivious to my sarcasm. “Maybe it will bring you some peace.”

“The winter solstice is a time of rebirth,” Abuela said. “It's a reminder that everything dies and is born again. And it also means anything can happen, niño. Even those things that you may have given up on.”

“That would be great, Abuela,” I said. “Thanks for the nata. I gotta be going now.”

All this talk of rebirth and hope was starting to give me a headache.

That was a Sunday. The next Tuesday, as it seemed I'd been doing every spare moment of my life since I could remember, I joined the boys on the steps of the movie theater, watching the shadows move inch by inch. We were so bored and sluggish that if Fidel himself had walked by and tipped his hat, we would scarcely have bothered to sit up.

“Here comes a jeep,” observed Luis.

“Who cares?” said Tito.

“It's turning down San Carlos Street,” said Rolando.

“Big deal,” I said. “We've seen lots of jeeps on this street before.”

“It's slowing down in front of your house, Eduardo!” said Luis.

I was motivated enough now to raise my head and look. Not only was there a jeep in front of our house, but there was an officer in it, wearing a neatly pressed uniform and a cap with a shiny black visor. He leapt out and marched imperiously to the front door of our house, a piece of paper clearly visible in his hand.

“Oh boy,” said Luis. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!”

“Calcines?” said Tito.

“Is that the—” said Rolando.

“Shh!” I said.

I watched my mother come to the door and accept the paper from the officer, who then turned and stalked back to his vehicle. With a roar of the engine, he was gone.