Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
Where There Had Once Been Cuba
Excerpt from Sofrito
By Phillippe DiederichLater that evening they walked down the Malecón to the Máximo Gómez monument, up Calle Tacón to Calle Cuba, and into the heart of Habana Vieja. Ancient colonial buildings loomed over narrow cobblestone streets. In open doors and windows, blue lights flickered and glowed from Soviet-made televisions tuned to the same government channel.
On Calle Empedrado, they turned into La Bodeguita Del Medio and pushed their way into the crowded bar that Hemingway had made famous. Frank whisked a couple of drinks from the bartender who had a revolving line of mojitos prepped along the length of the counter to appease the thirsty tourists. At La Bodeguita nobody drank anything else.
They stood pressed against each other, sweltering in the heat of the overcrowded bar. A short dark man with an old guitar sang that song about a man who cries black tears for his woman who did him wrong—he’s doomed to love her even if it kills him.
Marisol seemed hypnotized by the music, her eyes focused at infinity as if she were trying to recall a lost memory. Frank wondered if she was remembering a lover she’d left back in the provinces. He was surprised at the punch of jealousy that jabbed his gut. It had been a long time since he’d felt the anguish that accompanies affection.
“Entonces,” he said trying to bring her back to him. “Who’s your favorite writer?”
She stared at him as if mulling over the question. She said, “There are too many. Alejo Carpentier, Cabrera Infante, Cervantes, Neruda, García Márquez...”
“So mostly magical realism.”
“I don’t see it so magical,” she said. “Just look around you. Reality’s pretty crazy around here.”
“Good point.”
“Besides, it’s very difficult to find books here. With complicated novels, I can read them over and over and every time it feels like I’m reading something new. Like with William Faulkner. I seem to follow a different character every time I read him.”
“At least you didn’t say Hemingway.”
She laughed. “Ay, Frank. You really are Cuban.” She placed her hand on his arm. He looked away because it felt good. But it also made him nervous. He was afraid of her. When he saw her in that light, the bare bulbs casting shadows, sharp like machetes and curving along the contour of her face, her skin warm and smooth like fired clay, her eyes moist with laughter, and all the mojitos twisting everything just enough for the benefit of perfection, he saw her beautiful. He saw her more than he had seen her before, because he had not really been looking then. He saw so much more in the darkness of her almond eyes, more in her lips that formed crescents at every angle, more in her small expressive hands with the cheap pink nail polish from the dollar store, and the thin fake gold bracelet that encircled her delicate wrist, little golden hearts resting at the joint.
He pressed gently against her side and took in the smell of her perfume like sugar and vanilla. For the first time in a very long time, he felt the joy of a future filled with possibility. He wanted to breathe her in and take her deep inside him. His desire for her took him by surprise. He swallowed hard and looked away, his fingers pulling gently at his chin. He reminded himself there would be no chicken recipe, no Maduros. But there was Marisol.
They were led through the maze of dark hallways and half-lit rooms marked, drawn and carved with slogans and the names of customers, to a secluded nook in the center of the restaurant.
Marisol shrugged. “I don’t see the charm of this place. It’s always hot and the waiters are arrogant.”
“They say the food’s good, no?”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Any Cuban mother can cook this food. It’s in the blood, chico.”
“Sure, but what if you don’t have a Cuban mother?”
“Your mother’s not Cuban?”
Frank laughed. “Oh, she’s Cuban. She’s probably more Cuban than all the other Cuban mothers in New York and Houston. And maybe even Miami.” He leaned across the table and whispered, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I can cook like a Cuban mother.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“When I was little and got in trouble, my father would punish me by making me help my mother in the kitchen. I’ve cooked it all: picadillo, ropa vieja, vaca frita, arroz con pollo, boliche, ajiaco...”
Marisol covered he mouth and laughed. “¡Ay, no!”
“By the time I graduated from high school, I had peeled and chopped millions of chayotes and onions and plantains and malanga...”
“And boniato and yucca?”
“Absolutely. And so much garlic and batatas and everything else a Cuban mother uses to cook dinner.”
“Maybe, if I’m lucky, one day you can cook for me.”
He shook his head. “I hate cooking. My poor mother spent her life in the kitchen. But you know, I think that was her link to Cuba. The food made her feel close to home.
“But you enjoyed her food, no?”
“Sí, claro. But imagine me, thirteen years old and stuck in the kitchen all weekend. Por favor.”
Marisol raised her glass. “¡A las madres Cubanas!”
He took a sip of his drink and examined the glass. “You think these mojitos taste like the ones Hemingway drank?”
“I think a more appropriate question is why is Cuba’s most famous citizen a Yanqui?”
Frank’s eyes drifted around the restaurant. This was not the Cuba of his mother’s paranoia. He tried to picture his parents on a date at the Bodeguita, sipping mojitos, maybe hoping to get a glimpse of Hemingway or Errol Flynn or some other celebrity back in their day. He ran his hand over the layers of crayon wax and ink that covered the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting. All the individual names and independent thoughts that had been scrawled and carved on the wall, attempting to make a statement, had blended into a single blob that said nothing—each voice drowned out by the others.
“Maybe my parents’ names are carved somewhere in the restaurant, encircled in a heart and pierced by an arrow: Filomeno and Rosa forever.”
“Are they from La Habana?”
“Oriente.” But he really didn’t know where in the eastern part of the island, maybe Santiago, maybe another small town. A sugar town. “They didn’t talk much about Cuba. I suppose they felt Castro stole it from them.”
“I don’t believe that. All the exiles that left when the Revolución triumphed gave it up of their own free will. Coño, why didn’t they fight him?”
Frank stared at her across the table. He was thinking of when he was nine years old. He was playing in the backyard with Pepe. They had their GI Joes set up in strategic positions around a little fort built of sticks and rocks. For some reason they referred to the battle as a revolution, but it wasn’t Castro’s revolution. For them it was the Vietnam War. It hovered over them like a foul smell. It was everywhere. Whenever the principal’s voice crackled over the intercom interrupting class, calling a student to come to the office, it was a death sentence. Everyone knew it. A father or an older brother would be coming home in a bodybag. It had nothing to do with Cuba.
“And what about the Bay of Pigs?” he asked.
“Óyeme, no.” She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm, her hand flapping like a wounded butterfly. “When they saw that this crazy barbudo was going to stay, they got scared and decided to do something about it. But it was too late.”
A vicious weight pressed against his shoulders. He had to defend his parents. But he didn’t know enough to take a stand. Besides, his parents had done nothing. “At least they tried, no?”
“And what a failure.”
It kept ringing in his head: Filomeno did nothing about it. What Frank knew was that his father had run away as far as he could. He left Cuba and never looked back. It was a miracle he hadn’t moved the family to Alaska.
“Forgive me, Frank,” Marisol said softly and reached across the table for his hand. “I upset you. Maybe you have a relative who was killed at Playa Girón.”
“No, no, you’re right. My father did nothing. I don’t think he cared.”
His past hung like the cigar smoke in the Bodeguita, a place steeped in so much history. His father’s temper and his mother’s sorrow were all over the place. A tight ball of anger rose within his chest. He hated his father for his silence, for turning his back on their Cuban heritage.
It wasn’t until Justo arrived in Houston that Filomeno began to soften. And then, of course, there was Maduros.
A waiter took their order with general disinterest. Marisol watched him walk away. “You see that. I bet he doesn’t like serving Cubans.”
“Maybe you’re reading too much into it.”
“Pero, ven acá, you don’t know how it is here.” She glanced around the restaurant. “I bet you anything, that in all these names written on all the tables and walls, there is not a single Cuban name.”
“Marisol.” He laid it down like a domino. “I really don’t want to spend my time with you arguing about politics.”
“I’m sorry, Frank, but politics are a part of every Cuban. Even me.”
Frank leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Quizá, but I’m not going to argue with you about communism and democracy and all this mierda about what is right and what is wrong for Cuba, because Cubans and Cuban exiles have been arguing this shit for four decades and nothing’s come of it. I don’t want to waste my time the way they’ve wasted theirs.”
She fell silent for a moment. “I suppose enough people have suffered because of this Revolución.”
“Entonces,” he said and leaned forward. “Tell me, do you miss your home?”
“In Cienfuegos? Of course. I miss my family and my friends. Sometimes, I think that for us who come from provincia, it’s as if we’re exiles too. All my family lived in the same neighborhood. I grew up knowing everyone in my street. Here, I don’t have any of that. I’m alone. La Habana today, coño, it’s a lot of dollars but no love.”
Frank reached across the table and took her hand. He looked into her eyes. He was thinking that he wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to make everything all right for her.
But when he opened his mouth, he said, “At least you had that. I never met my grandparents. I had no uncles or cousins. All we had was television.”
Marisol waved a finger at him. “That’s very American, Frank.”
“I am American.” But then he really didn’t know anymore. In Houston he was forced to defend what little of Cuba he had inside. Now, in Cuba, he had to do it all over again. It was as if his life was a series of dots that never seemed to connect.
The food arrived in a cloud of citrus and garlic—thick slices of roast pork, chunks with skin and fat attached and covered with thin circles of sliced onions and strong garlic mojo sauce. A cup of black beans, white rice, yucca and maduros and a small plate of moros.
Frank studied their meal. “So what do you think?”
Marisol picked at her rice and beans. She took a bite and coughed. A grain of rice projectiled from her mouth and landed in Frank’s lap.
“Ay, perdón.” She laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “But it tastes just like my mother’s arroz moro. I have never tasted anyone cook it like that.” Her eyes became glossy. She took another quick bite as if to make sure she had tasted what she thought she’d tasted. “Pero qué rico. It’s just like hers, Frank. She always adds extra bacon and throws in a little canela to give it that special taste. Try it.”
The taste was deep and smoky. He picked at the pork. The meat was tender, the flavor fresh. Tart.
Marisol scooped a piece of pork from his plate. “Cuban food is the best. It’s like, el corazón de todo. It makes everything better, no?”
Frank nodded and chewed a mouthful of pork, the citrus and garlic infusing his senses. “My God, Marisol. I don’t care if you’re Cuban or not, but this is the greatest roast pork, and the mojo...”
“It’s good,” Marisol said, “but I have to tell you. You haven’t tasted my uncle’s lechón. Every Christmas he butchers a pig in our yard. My father and him start early in the morning. They take all the insides out and pour hot water over the carcass and shave the hair. My mother and my aunt make a mojo with the garlic from our friend Hernando García who has a farm outside the city. She uses bitter oranges and lime to get the perfect tartness. Then they wrap the pig in big leaves from my father’s banana trees and cook it all day with marabú charcoal buried under the red clay. It is so good. Frank, you can’t even imagine. We have a big party with all the family, the grandparents, the children and even some neighbors. I wish you could be there sometime. Do you think maybe you will come back at Christmas time?”
“I don’t know. Are you inviting me?”
“Of course, mi amor. Will you come?”
“Sure.” But he didn’t believe it himself. Or only half believed it because he was in Cuba. He was not supposed to have come, and he would probably never return. He had four precious days to spend with her. Then it would be over. And what did he have to go back to? A failing restaurant and an empty apartment.
After dinner they squeezed their way out between the mob of tourists, jineteras, jineteros, musicians, taxi drivers and street kids that had congregated at the narrow entrance of the restaurant. They walked down the block to the Plaza de La Catedral. A gentle breeze cooled their skin. The laughter of children echoed along the cobblestones. Couples— Cubans, tourists, Cubans and tourists together—strolled past arm in arm.
The street vendors were packing their books and arts crafts from around the plaza. A group of barefoot, shirtless street kids, their dark skin powdered in the dust of Habana Vieja, strutted around the outer tables of a café seeking handouts and stealing bread from unattended tables.
Frank took Marisol’s hand, their fingers laced together like cloth. He wanted her close. He loved the feel of her skin against his. Her smell. Her laughter and the way she seemed to ponder in mysterious silence.
At the Parque Central, a group of homeless men slept under the moon shadow cast by the statue of José Martí. From the cars parked on Calle Zulueta, the aggressive whispers of the private taxi drivers rose like crickets in the night, “Taxi...psst. Taxi...”
They walked into the Plaza Hotel. A group of jineteras prowled the lobby. The bar was quiet, the piano silent. A pair of drunk-looking European men talked quietly with their Cuban dates. The bartender tapped a rhythm on the counter. The man sitting across from him pulled the cigarette from his mouth and nodded.
“Frank,” Marisol said and pointed to where two young ladies and a waiter were trying to capture a stuffed toy with a coin-operated crane. “Can you give me a dollar to play the game?”
Frank ordered a beer and sat. He watched Marisol press her face against the glass of the arcade game. At the other end of the bar, the Cuban girls faked interest in the conversations of their tourist friends. They sat erect, decked out in tight, multicolored Spandex, their faces bright and shiny with sweat and makeup. They smoked American cigarettes, their hands tilted to the side, their movements sexy, flamboyant. But their eyes were empty. Lost.
A jinetera ambled up to him. “Italiano?” She leaned close, the powerful smell of her cheap, too-sweet perfume flooding the table. “My name is Dolores.”
Frank pointed behind him. “I’m with her.”
*
They took a turi-taxi through the dark empty streets. Frank’s mind buzzed with too many thoughts, of what life was supposed to be, of his father and Cuba. And of Marisol. He wanted to learn her mystery. He wanted to keep the moment suspended in this place, in a limbo that was neither with nor without.But it was impossible. The taxi pulled in front of the dark building.
He leaned over and touched her hand. “Would you like me to walk you upstairs? Tú sabes, in case of Chuck Norris?”
“No, mi amor. Besides, what Chuck Norris wants is to find me with someone like you.”
“I had a great time, especially this afternoon. Up there.”
She smiled and leaned her head to the side. “Am I going to see you again?”
“Of course.”
“Tomorrow?”
He held her chin and kissed her on the lips.
She turned her gaze to the dark ocean.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly and reached into his pocket. “How much should I give you?”
She grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “No. I don’t want it to be like this with you.”
“It’s okay.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out a few twenties.
“You have to eat, no?”
“No, Frank. Please.”
He folded the bills and placed them in her hand.
But she didn’t take them.
He folded the bills and placed them in her hand.
But she didn’t take them.
Diederich Phillippe, whose parents were kicked out of Haiti by the
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| Photo by Selina Roman |