Leaving Glorytown (26 page)

Finally, after two hours, Mama and Papa came out the front door and down the steps. Both of them were pale and sweating. Papa had a piece of paper in his hand.

“Where have you been?” Esther shrieked. “We were getting scared!”

By the expressions on their faces, I knew the interrogations hadn't
been pleasant. But by now I knew better than to ask what had happened. The only thing that mattered was that we were getting out.

“They're still letting us leave, right?” I asked.

Papa nodded. “I have our release form.”

“Well, then, things are not so bad!” the driver said, his voice full of cheer.

Papa gave him directions to the place where we were to stay that night. It was a small room near the beach.

“Twenty-five pesos, please,” said the driver when he dropped us off.

Twenty-five pesos was equal to about eight or nine American dollars. Mama reached into her purse for the money, which she had earned selling panetelas. I'd seen her count all of her money about thirty times on the way here, just to make sure she hadn't lost it. She handed the twenty-five pesos over. I had never seen so much cash before. I was impressed by how casually the driver tucked it into his shirt pocket. I wondered how we would have been able to afford the taxi if not for Mama's efforts, and all my trips to the port with those bags of panetelas.

The driver wished us well and asked that we please remember, if at all possible, to let his brother know he was okay. Then he was gone.

Tía Luisa and her daughter, Maricela, met us there, as we had arranged beforehand. They had come to Varadero to make sure that everything went well for us. It was only lunchtime. We had eaten nothing all day, and now, faced with the prospect of having the rest of the day and night to kill, I was hungry and restless.

“Let us kids go out and walk around,” I said to Papa. “We'll be good, I promise.”

Mama shook her head. “No!” she said. “It's too risky. All we need
now is for you to get into trouble, hijo, and that is one thing you're very good at.”

“Not today, Mama. I promise. I'll have Esther and Maricela along to keep me straight. Please, can we? What are we supposed to do, just sit in here all day and look at the floor?”

Finally they gave in. After ten minutes' worth of instructions and admonitions, we were set loose on Varadero Beach amid all the foreign tourists, in the place where no Cubans were supposed to go.

For at least half an hour, we did nothing but walk around and look at the stores. There were no soldiers or other security personnel in sight. I could hardly believe it. I couldn't even remember a time when armed people in uniform weren't standing around, watching our every move.

“This is what it will be like when we get to America, and even better,” I told Esther. “Stores everywhere, all full of wonderful things, and no army men around to watch us.”

“I'm nervous,” said Maricela. “What if they
are
watching us?”

“Just act natural. Look, what's that shop?”

“It's an ice-cream parlor!” said Esther. “Oh, I wish we had money!”

As a matter of fact, I did have money—three pesos, which Abuela Ana had given me the night before. She'd earned them by selling eggs from her chickens, eggs that she and Abuelo were supposed to be eating for breakfast every morning. I also had the American dollar Papa had given me on my birthday, but I was certainly not going to spend that—at least, not until we got to America.

I showed the girls the money and told them where I'd gotten it. “Maybe it will be enough,” I said.

“But Abuela went without breakfast all those mornings!” said Esther. “Would she really want us to spend it on ice cream?”

“Listen, hermana, we have to spend this money now, in Cuba,” I told her, “because when we get to America these pesos won't be worth the paper they're printed on. All together they're not even worth one American dollar.”

“Should we try?” Maricela asked.

“Well, why not?” I said. Being the man of the group, it was up to me to brave the possible wrath of the government by daring to purchase ice cream.

The girls waited for me outside. I went in, marveling that there was no line at the counter.

“Can I help you?” said the attendant, a man in a white uniform.

“Th—three chocolate ice creams, please,” I said.

The man stared at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said.

Well, that was all I needed to hear. I turned and headed for the exit.

“Wait!” said the man. “What I meant was, you can't have three. You can only buy one per person. That's the rule.”

I turned around again.

“In that case, sir,” I said, “allow me to say that the other two are for the girls standing out there.” I pointed to Esther and Maricela.

“Why don't they come in?”

“Too shy.”

“Not from around here, huh?”

“No, sir. We're from Cienfuegos.”

“We're only supposed to serve tourists here.”

“If it makes any difference,” I said, “we're leaving the country tomorrow. So I guess you could say we are tourists—kind of.”

The man smiled.

“Your last ice cream in Cuba, eh? Well, then, I can certainly make an exception,” he said, and he dug down with his scoop and made three chocolate ice-cream cones. I didn't tell him that this was also my first ice cream in Cuba. I was afraid he would laugh at me.

Outside on the sidewalk, I watched the girls as they licked their treats, smiling delightedly. Then I started on mine. So this was ice cream!

“Wow,” I said when I'd finished it. “I knew it would be good, but I didn't think it would be
that
good!”

“I wish we could have shared it with Abuela, is all,” said Esther. She started to sniffle. “Our poor grandparents, going without breakfast just so we can have ice cream! And it was gone so fast! Hermano, I wish we hadn't done it.”

“Hermana, let it go,” I said. “You're depressing me. Believe me, Abuela wouldn't mind. She knew it wasn't going to buy us much. She did it because she loves us.”

“I remember I had ice cream once a long time ago,” said Maricela. “But it didn't taste as good as this.”

“Where we're going, we can have ice cream three times a day if we want to,” I said. But Maricela looked so upset at this that I instantly regretted it.

“I'm sorry, Mari,” I said. “I don't mean to rub it in.”

“I know. It's exciting. I just wish I were going with you, that's all.”

“Maybe someday you will come, too!” said Esther.

“Maybe,” said Maricela, but she didn't sound too optimistic.

When we had licked the last smudge of chocolate from our fingers, we looked around for what to do next. Across the street, the ocean beckoned.

“I want to go down to the beach,” I said.

“No!” said Esther. “Mama and Papa told us not to go too far!”

“It's right there!” I said. “Come on. When are we ever going to be here again? We're not going to do anything wrong. We're just going to look.”

Finally, I convinced Esther it would be all right. The three of us crossed the street, took off our shoes, and went down to the water's edge. Varadero Beach was even more beautiful than the beach at Rancho Club, by Fort Jagua, which I had always thought was the most beautiful place in the world. As we stood with our feet in the warm surf, marveling at the shimmering beauty of the water and the glorious white sand, I remembered how the boys and I had sometimes bragged that we would bring our wives to Varadero on our honeymoons. In those days, I'd never seriously imagined I would be leaving Cuba. The telegram had seemed like a distant dream, not a serious possibility. Now here I was, about to leave. I wondered if my friends would ever even make it to this beach. Already, I had passed out of the sphere of everything that was familiar to us on San Carlos Street. My adventure had begun the moment we got into that taxi. I felt as if I were riding a rocket ship to the moon.

Soon, we went back to the room to find Mama and Papa relaxing on the two small single beds. Tía Luisa was about to go for a walk, no doubt to see if she could find any new black market contacts, and Maricela went with her. It was the first time I had seen my parents so relaxed in ages. Mama sat up.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Eduardito bought us ice cream!” said Esther.

“You kids are to stay close from now on,” said Papa. He wasn't mad,
just worried. Esther and I got into bed with him, and he pulled us close. For a moment, I flashed back to all those times we used to snuggle up with him when he came home for lunch from his job at Tío William's.

“Papa,” I said, “tell us more about Ritica la Cubanita.”

“Yeah, tell us about when you were little!” Esther said.

Papa sighed. “Those stories belong to a different time now,” he said.

“What, you mean you won't tell them anymore?”

“No. I just mean that now we're living in moments that will be the stories of the future. I feel funny, like I just had a glimpse through time. You kids will be telling your own children about this moment when they are small, about the time you left Cuba and came to America. Your children will be Americans. And your grandchildren, too. This moment will be repeated in stories for generations, how the Calcineses had to flee their homeland forever.”

“Eduardito is going to grow up and marry an American lady!” Esther giggled.

“Shut up!” I said. I was still young enough for such talk to embarrass me, at least in front of my parents. “You're going to marry an American man, too, Esther! He's going to have blond hair and blue eyes, and you're going to have to kiss him every day!”

“Oh, no!” said Esther. “I'm not kissing anybody!”

“Oh, yes, you are!”

“Children,” Mama chided us. “Your father and I are tired. It's already been a very long day.”

Papa was caressing my face absentmindedly, as he did sometimes. Suddenly he sat up and took my cheeks in his hands.

“Oh, no!” he declared, sounding horrified.

“What? What?” I panicked, thinking he'd remembered some reason why I couldn't go to America.

“Your face!”

“What about it? What? What?”

“Mama, look!” he said. “Look at your son! Specifically, look right under his nose!”

“I don't want to know,” she said, in a tone that suggested she knew exactly what Papa was talking about.

“Papa,
what
?” I yelled.

“Come into the bathroom with me,” Papa said.

He dragged me in front of the mirror and pushed my face close to it. He had me so worried I was nearly in tears. “I don't see anything!”

“You, my son,” said Papa, “need a shave.”

“What? A shave?”

“Yes. A shave. I see two, three, four, five . . . maybe ten whiskers there.”

I began to laugh. “Papa, is that all? You scared me half to death!”

“Listen, niño. If the authorities think you're older than you really are, they might not let us go. So we're going to shave off that mustache right this minute, and tomorrow, when you get on the plane, act as young as possible.”

“How do I do that?”

“I don't know. Suck your thumb or something.”

“Papa! I'm not going to suck my thumb!”

“Well, I was just kidding. But we do need to trim you up. Go and get my razor from my luggage. I'm going to teach you how to use
it. And when we get to America, I will get you a razor of your own.”

I fetched his razor, and Papa lathered up a bit of soap and made a big show of covering my whole face with it. Then, instructing me carefully, he let me shave myself.

“It's a proud moment in a man's life when his son shaves for the first time,” he said. “I remember very well the first time I shaved. My older brothers taught me, because my father was already gone. That seems like a million years ago.”

“How old were you then, Papa?”

“I guess I must have been about the age you are now. We had already come to Cienfuegos.” Papa sighed, remembering. “How hard it was, that trip. I'll never forget it. When we got to Cienfuegos, we felt we had arrived in the promised land. And now here we are, leaving it like it was a prison.”

“It is a prison,” Mama called from the next room. “Are you done yet? Let me see my clean-shaven boy. I want to see a smooth baby face, not a hairy man face.”

I went to Mama's side. She touched my cheek, smiling.

“You really are almost a man,” she said. “It's hard for a mama to see her little boy so grown up.”

“What do you mean, hard?” I snorted. “My whole life you've been telling me to grow up, and now that I am, you don't like it!”

“It's complicated,” Papa said. “When you have children, you'll understand how bittersweet it is to watch them grow older.”

“Well, if you want, I can stay home and wear diapers for the rest of my life,” I said. “Would that make you happy?”

Ordinarily, I might have gotten a tap on the bottom for such
mouthiness. But under the circumstances, we all needed a good laugh. Mama and Papa and Esther were convulsed with mirth for the next few minutes. Even I had a good chuckle over my little joke.