‘What brings you here this morning?’ he asked, and Quiroz began a long review of the relationships between the Calderons and the Quiroz branch of the family: ‘Don’t forget,’ he said in Spanish, for he had refused to become proficient in English, having expected all along that he would be returning to Cuba, ‘that your great-grandfather’s name was Calderón y Quiroz and his mother was my great-grandfather’s sister. We’re related, you must remember, and it isn’t proper for you to oppose the things I’m trying to do.’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Steve interrupted, drawing an even deeper scowl.
‘Regain Cuba, and if that’s impossible because the Russians won’t allow it, even when Castro’s gone, to make a safe place for us here in Miami.’
‘Do you have to insult the Anglos to accomplish that?’
‘Yes!’ he said defiantly. ‘I can never forget how they insulted us when we came here in 1959. Their days are numbered.’
Distressed by such talk, Calderon rose and began pacing about his office, then turned to face Quiroz: ‘Máximo, you’re free to fight for a Cuba freed from Russian domination, but you mustn’t ruin south Florida for those of us who’re going to remain here for the rest of our lives.’ He stopped suddenly, stared at his cousin, and asked: ‘By the way, have you ever applied for American citizenship?’
‘My home is down there.’
‘Then for heaven’s sake, spend your efforts there. Don’t wreck Miami for the rest of us.’
‘What am I doing to wreck …?’
‘Reopening that bilingual problem.’
‘Ah! Your wealthy Anglo friends better accept the fact, Miami is going to be a Spanish city. Not only Cubans coming in. All the extra people in Central America—todas la gente en América Central—they’ll be coming here to live, and they must be free to conduct their lives in Spanish.’
‘But, Máximo,’ Steve asked almost pleadingly, ‘don’t you realize that such a campaign, all over again, will make the Anglos …’
‘I want to make them eat dirt the way you and I had to when we came to their city.’
‘I never ate dirt,’ Steve insisted, but Quiroz raged: ‘Yes you did. Year after year, working as a janitor, but you refused to admit it!’ and Steve saw that it was hopeless to use either truth or logic with this difficult man: ‘I don’t know why I bother with you, Máximo,’ he said, and his visitor leered at him provocatively: ‘Yes you do. You listen to me because you know I’m a true Cuban patriot … a hero … a man who will lead us back to Cuba.’ Quiroz could afford to be arrogant because he knew that he was a reproach to those Americanized Cubans who were uneasy about adopting a new homeland and turning their backs on the old.
Some months ago the Patrias, aware that friction was increasing between Quiroz and Calderon, sent one of their most stable members to reason with Steve, and the man said:
‘Quiroz is difficult, and I’m a member of Patrias because I don’t like his extremist acts here in Miami, but he’s also a man of noble courage. I know. When he came to me here in Miami back in 1961 and whispered: “We’re going to invade Cuba, kill that bastard Castro, and make our homeland free once more,” I jumped forward to help.
‘He and I were first on the beach at Bay of Pigs, last to leave. Fact is, he stayed behind so long, still firing at the communists, that we were captured and thrown into big trucks, door bolted shut and shipped in disgrace to Havana for the Cubans to gloat over us.’
At this point in his recollection of that catastrophe, and overwhelmed by what he must say next, the veteran of that bungled cause asked for a drink of water before concluding:
‘The trip in that locked bus took eight hours, with the sun beating upon our roof, and before long men began to die of suffocation. It was now that Máximo proved his heroism, for he told us to scratch at the siding with our belt buckles, try to make a hole, and when an hour passed with no results he screamed: “Scratch harder or die!” and he was the first to complete a hole, and the fresh air he brought us saved my life. Today Máximo lives for only one thing. To get back to Cuba and finish with Castro.’
Quietly, Steve had asked: ‘Will any Miami Cubans join him?’ and this sensible man had replied instantly: ‘Me and ten thousand like me.’
So now, when Steve stared across his desk at Quiroz, he had to admit that the unpleasant fellow was a verifiable hero. He also knew that Máximo had come for some specific reason, so he asked: ‘Now what is it that you came to see me about?’ and Quiroz realized that the time had come for a frank discussion. With his scowl newly intensified, he growled: ‘They tell me you’re going down to see Castro.’
Steve’s strong inclination was to ask: ‘Who told you that?’ but he did not wish to engage in a lying contest, so he replied truthfully: ‘I have no plans to visit Castro, none at all.’
‘Then why are you visiting Cuba?’
‘Who said I was?’
‘We know. We too have friends in high places who dream of freedom in Cuba.’
‘If I were going,’ Steve said, ‘I’d take my wife, and the purpose of the trip would be to see your cousin and mine, Roberto Calderón.’ He paused: ‘I’m sure you know that his wife and mine are twin sisters.’
‘I did know. But that can’t be a reason for a man like you going back to Cuba. With your family record of always favoring the United States, Cuba would be crazy to let you in.’
‘Times change, Máximo.’
‘Not where Castro is concerned. Let me warn you, Estéfano, do not go to visit with that criminal in La Habana.’ The use of his Spanish name evoked so many pleasant memories to Steve that he rose, embraced his formidable cousin, and said: ‘One of these day, Máximo, we’ll all go back to La Habana for a long visit. Things will change, believe me,’ and Quiroz, disarmed by this gesture of good will, said grudgingly: ‘For me it won’t be a visit. Castro will be dead and I’ll be going home to stay … in triumph.’ Then quickly he regained his composure: ‘Estéfano, I warn you. Do not go to Cuba. Do not make concessions to that murderer.’
‘I have no intention …’
‘But you already have a ticket to Toronto. I know what happens in Toronto. You slip into Cuba that way.’
Astonished by Máximo’s knowledge of his movements, Steve said: ‘If you know so much, you must also know that I’m attending a medical meeting up there.’
Rising and heading for the door, Quiroz growled: ‘Estéfano, if you go to Cuba and try to meet with Castro, you’ll be in grave danger. I warn you, don’t do it.’
When Steve heard him clumping down the hallway, he leaned back in his chair and wondered who it could have been in that Washington meeting who had slipped the word south to his allies in Miami concerning the government’s new strategies relating to Cuba, and his own involvement in those strategies.
In Toronto, Steve and Kate attended the medical meetings and he spoke twice from the floor in order to verify his presence. On the third day they rented a car, and not wishing to provide any possible verification of their trip to Cuba, allowed themselves to be seen heading east toward Nova Scotia, but when they were well on their way they deviated to Montreal, parked their car at the airport, and boarded a plane for Mexico, where they transferred to a much smaller plane which sped them swiftly to Havana.
On the bus ride into town there were enough seats so that the Calderons could each have a window, Kate in front, Steve right behind her, and their remarks passing back and forth attested to their continuing surprise: ‘It’s sure cleaner than it used to be,’ Kate said, and Steve responded: ‘A lot fewer uniforms than we used to see in Batista’s day.’
She asked: ‘Where are the donkeys that once lined this road?’ and he echoed: ‘And where are those shiny new American cars?’
It was a new Cuba, and in certain obvious ways a better one, but Steve was reluctant to voice any general approval: ‘We’ve got to remember, most any city in the world has made improvements over the past quarter of a century. No special credit to communism,’ the la
st observation being made in a whisper close to Kate’s ear.
However, when they were actually in the city he was shocked to see two aspects which grieved him as the owner of several extremely trim buildings in Miami: the gruesome deterioration of entire rows of buildings falling into disrepair, and the failure of owners to cut the grass or clean the pavements before their homes or places of business: ‘This city is a dump. It needs a million gallons of paint.’
Kate did not hear his complaints, for she was making her own assessments: ‘Look how everybody has decent clothes to wear. And the relaxed attitude of the faces. Doesn’t look like a dictatorship,’ and Steve cautioned: ‘Wait till you see what’s going on behind those smiles.’
As the ride ended and they disembarked at the portals of a big hotel, they did not enter immediately but remained on the street as Steve told the porter in Spanish: ‘These five bags. We’ll register in just a minute,’ and they breathed deeply in the soft tropic air. ‘Look,’ Kate cried. ‘No beggars.’ And when Steve commented on the lack of clutter in the streets it became obvious that these two homecomers were pleased, perhaps against their deep convictions, to see that their native land was doing moderately well.
Alone in their room, Steve looked approvingly at the festoon of flowers which awaited them, and said: ‘In a grudging way, I’m proud of the old place. Dump or not, it feels like home.’ Running to him with an embrace, Kate whispered: ‘I was wrong in advising you not to come. Seeing Havana again, what little we have so far, is thrilling. Let’s surprise Plácida with a call right now telling them we’re in town,’ and in the next three-quarters of an hour they learned something about Cuba, for the registering of a simple phone call became an act of high strategy. One did not merely pick up the phone and dial; one entered into negotiation with the operator, whose lines were perpetually busy, but after interminable delays the call did sometimes go through. After Kate’s efforts finally succeeded they waited anxiously in their room, and with surprising speed came the call from within the hotel: ‘We’re waiting in the lobby.’
It was an emotional moment when the twins met, for in the long years since 1959 they had seen only photographs of each other, and both they and their husbands were amazed at how much alike they still looked. Reddish hair piled high, flashing white teeth, neither over nor under weight, and with the roguish good humor they had preserved through the vicissitudes of life, Plácida appeared an ideal Cuban wife, Kate a typical Miami Hispanic adjusted to American ways. They were a striking pair, and the mutual affection they displayed even in these first moments of reunion was so disarming that the husbands moved away to give them privacy to express their feelings.
Like their wives, each husband epitomized his country: Roberto as an important fifty-two-year-old Cuban officeholder, with clothes and appearance in the Spanish mode; Estéfano as any uprooted Cuban, Puerto Rican or Mexican who had attained eminence in some profession in the States. Each was honestly glad to see the other after such a long absence, but since Roberto as a member of the government had to be suspicious of Americans, he wanted specific information as to why his cousin had come south, and Estéfano gave three honest reasons: ‘To see you. To see the old sugar mill. But most of all, so that Caterina could visit with Plácida again,’ and these reasons satisfied Roberto, who cried: ‘You’re to leave this hotel and move in with us,’ and his wife, hearing the invitation, reinforced it by saying: ‘I’ll help Caterina pack and we’ll go to our place immediately.’
The old Calderón sugar mill west of the city had long since ceased functioning, and after the revolution of 1959 all the extensive lands had been expropriated and turned into small holdings for peasants. But Roberto, an ardent supporter of the revolution, had been allowed to retain four small stoneworkers’ cottages interconnected by lovely arched cloisters such as one might see in a monastery. By adding a few low stone walls to bind the area together, various small patios had resulted, and these were kept filled with flowers, producing an effect which recalled old Spain, and this was not surprising, since families of pure Spanish blood had owned the great plantation for nearly five centuries.
The many small rooms had been decorated by Plácida Calderón in the old style, so that when Steve and his wife were led through the simple but charming house, he cried: ‘Hey! You’ve made the old place into a palace,’ and Kate ran to one of the smaller buildings, leaned against it, and cried: ‘Plácida! Remember? This is where Estéfano first kissed me, and you were so delighted when I told you.’
In those lovely moments of recollection and reconciliation a change came over the Miami Calderons, and the cause was simple but pervasive, as Steve recognized: ‘It’s good to be called Estéfano again, and to be reminded that my name is really Calderón with a heavy accent, and followed by my mother’s name, Arévalo. It’s almost as if I’d become a whole man again,’ and for the remainder of his stay on the island he would be a Cubano, wary, inquisitive, judgmental and keenly aware of his heritage, and he would pronounce the word in the strong old style, Koo-bahn-oh. Caterina, nodding as he spoke, for she had felt the same pleasure in hearing only Spanish, reminded him: ‘And it’s La Habana.’
They were interested and in a sense gratified to learn that in two of the small houses which comprised the compound seven members of the Cuban Calderón family had found permanent refuge, the husbands working for Roberto in his government office, the women helping Plácida in the charity work with which she was involved. It was a warm, loving center of mutual interests and the Miami Calderons were pleased to become a part of it. The next week was one of illumination, confusion and joy. The first came as a result of explorations made through the countryside in Roberto’s Russian-made Lada coupe, which to Caterina seemed awkward and boxlike but to Estéfano rather sturdily engineered. They visited places the Miami Calderons had known years ago, and they couldn’t help crying out ‘Look at it now!’ over and over, reflecting surprise at either how much improved it was or how deteriorated. Often there was a pang of lost innocence when the twins visited together some spot which had once been of great importance to them—the home of a friend long dead or an uncle who had simply disappeared—and they stood clasping hands as they recalled those happier days when they were young and striving to solve the riddles of love and marriage and destiny.
In those far-off days they had all been staunchly Catholic, and one afternoon when the four were seated with their rum drinks in the far corner of one of the patios where the sun could not reach them, Caterina said: ‘I’m astonished, Plácida, to hear that you’ve strayed from our Catholic beginnings.’
‘Nobody in Cuba bothers much with Catholicism today,’ her sister said, ‘because on this island, the church never behaved well. Remember that horrible Father Oquende, always sucking up to the rich? Well, he and his kind are gone, and I say, “Good riddance.” ’
Caterina said: ‘Now that’s funny. When a Cuban moves to Miami and is overawed by the Anglos, he or she becomes more Catholic than ever. Estéfano and I go to Mass every Sunday, but I think he does it mostly for business reasons. In Miami he’d be badly damaged if it was rumored that he was not a strong Catholic.’
‘Down here just the opposite. Roberto would be suspect within the party if he was seen attending Mass. Were you there when the pope visited Miami?’
‘We were. A sensational rededication to the Catholic faith and in a strange way a reinforcement of Hispanic values. Estéfano and I were very proud to be chosen as leaders of the Cuban community to meet him.’ When Plácida sniffed, Estéfano asked with just a hint of irritation: ‘If Castro’s revoked the church and the past, what do you believe in?’ and Roberto replied with firmness: ‘We don’t bother much about the past. We keep our eye on the future.’
‘And what’s that future likely to be? Continued dependence on Russia?’
‘Now wait, you two norteamericanos. You maintain a Caribbean pigsty on Puerto Rico and you encourage poor Haiti to fester in her wounds …’
‘While Russia
sends you guns? Who’s the better for it?’
‘You miss the whole point, Estéfano, you really do. Russia does send us some guns, and we appreciate them, but what’s much more important, she sends us oil, and what’s most important of all, she buys her sugar from us at three cents above world price, which is just enough to keep us prospering.’ Before Estéfano could respond, his cousin added: ‘If you Americans were clever, you’d buy Caribbean sugar at that price, and the entire area would blossom, as it did when our fathers were kids. But your sugarbeet states won’t allow that, so you watch as the Caribbean islands, on your own doorstep, edge closer to revolution or ruin.’
And so their discussions went. Estéfano raising questions, and in response, Roberto defending Castroism fiercely, then making a stronger accusation against the United States. Their conversation became an antiphonal dialogue between the two nations.
ESTÉFANO: What about the Cubans in Angola?
ROBERTO: They’re fighting to defend the freedom of Portugal’s former slaves. And what are your mercenaries doing in Nicaragua?
ESTÉFANO: What about diminished supplies of consumer goods under communism?
ROBERTO: You don’t see any starving Cubans, and from what I read, I understand that twenty-five percent of Americans are suffering from inadequate diets because food is so expensive.
ESTÉFANO: What about the huge number of political prisoners Castro keeps in his jails?
ROBERTO: The United States and South Africa are the only so-called civilized nations that still execute people for minor offenses.
ESTÉFANO: When I left Cuba, there were half a dozen wonderful publications like the weekly Bohemia and the daily Marina, but now I can find only grubby communist propaganda sheets like Granma.
ROBERTO: We know the press in America is the tool of Wall Street, but we don’t allow anything like that in Cuba. We revere free speech … to safeguard the revolution.
After a score of such inconclusive exchanges, the Miami couple returned to their rooms, where Estéfano said: ‘Boy, he’s really swallowed the Castro line,’ and Caterina replied: ‘Maybe in this country that’s the smart thing to do,’ but then she added: ‘I still like it here. This isn’t Lower Slobovia, like our papers sometimes claim.’