A Girl In Cuba.
A short story about love and lies.
“A man is given a choice between loving a woman and understanding them.” Ninon de L’Enclos
Lonnie was staying at a small hotel, just off Avenida Segunda, but he was getting tired of Varadero. Every time he found a place he liked — and local girls he liked — Raul Castro would send in his police to clear the beaches, the clubs, anywhere the girls tended to congregate.
Arrests were so common, some of the jinetras disappeared back to Havana and Matanzas. The only other place left seemed to be Guanabo, a coastal town twenty minutes south of the capital.
According to a Frenchman at some local bar, Guanabo was still open. The Frenchman was going there the following day. Lonnie decided to go along. He ended up renting the upper floor of a casa just off the Circulo Washington, run by a Cuban man and his wife.
It was a bright upper floor with two rooms overlooking a small courtyard with dusty palms. The landlord let Lonnie bring girls back in the evening, sometimes even checking the girls’ papers. It was common practice. Everyone lived by their own devices in Cuba.
Some of the girls came back complaining that the Italians were gallegros or jamoneros.
Lonnie liked to sit in the outdoor restaurants, watching the Italians leaning over the railings. They were loud and often offensive. Some of the girls came back complaining that the Italians were gallegros or jamoneros.
These girls were often the same ones Lonnie knew from Varadero. Mostly, they were mulatons, meaning mulata and black, very poor, but clean. Lonnie liked giving them little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, telling them he’d bring more on his next visit. They always waved to Lonnie.
The girl Lonnie liked best was Mariana, a light muleta who spoke English quite well. She said she was a trained pharmacist. There was no work for her in the hospitals, and she was worried she’d get thrown in prison for selling herself. She blamed the Italians. “Girls fight over them,” she said to Lonnie. “They hold out money and the girls fight. It brings too much attention. It’s stupid. Everyone’s so desperate now.”
She’d say this sitting on Lonnie’s bed, hands always moving. Mariana didn’t look like a typical mulaton. Her features were too finely drawn. Her hair was light brown and she talked often of politics and her own situation. Every young woman in Guanabo faced the same thing. Do you sell yourself or starve?
Lonnie listened, telling Mariana he’d do what he could, meaning he couldn’t do much. He was only there for another week.
Many girls were now in prison or on their way. A week there could age you five years.
“Girls are getting arrested every day,” Mariana said.
“I know that,” he said.
He’d witnessed numerous arrests, sometimes right outside the restaurants and bars. A girl had been led away the other day. They took her by the arm and pulled her to a car. There were rumours many more arrests would follow in the coming months. Prisons in Cuba were terrible places to be. A week in one could age you five years, according to Mariana.
“We wait for the old man to die, but he won’t,” she said. “I can’t stand it anymore. I need to get out of here.”
In the mornings, Mariana would leave, waving from the dusty courtyard. The landlord and his wife were there in the kitchen. They never said anything to Lonnie about the girls. They called him “singao”, meaning money, and the landlord’s wife said it openly.
“Sit, sit,” he’d go on, pulling out a chair. “You have a good night, huh? She is a lovely girl. Very nice girl.”
The landlord didn’t like her saying it. He’d admonish her, sometimes loudly in their bedroom below at night. When Lonnie came downstairs, he would set out fruit and coffee and say “Que bola, señor? You have a good night, huh? She is a lovely girl. Very nice girl.”
He’d tell Lonnie all the girls were nice. “They are very clean girls,” he’d say. “Maybe you choose a different one tonight? They don’t mind, señor. They say they do, but it’s a mistake to fall in love. So many men go away again.”
His wife would stand inside, arms crossed. When he’d go back to the kitchen, she’d yell at him about something. Eventually, Lonnie ended up at the cafes near the beach. He’d sit with other men and watch the girls.
On the fourth day, Lonnie told the landlord he was going to the Grapefruit Festival on Isla de la Juventud. “You’ll have a good time,” the landlord said. “Everyone has a good time. I’ll keep your room clean until you come back.”
Lonnie was travelling with an architect he’d met from Chicago. This architect was trying to marry a Cuban girl. The government was making it difficult. Over a year had passed and nothing had happened. While in Nueva Gerona, he got drunk and slept with another woman. Then he disappeared.
Lonnie came back to Guanabo and sat in the outdoor cafes again. He decided to get in touch with Mariana. She said she had something to tell him. She asked if she could come by with her mother. It was never good when a girl brought her mother. The landlord told Lonnie to be careful.
Condoms were easy to come by in Cuba. Girls joked they were easier to get than food.
Lonnie hoped Mariana wasn’t pregnant. But why would she be? Condoms were easy to come by in Cuba. Girls joked they were easier to get than food. They also knew it was a gamble getting pregnant by a foreigner. Castro didn’t want pregnant girls leaving the country, His answer was to hold up the process, sometimes for years. Before long, the foreigner would lose interest. Then the girl and her family would have to raise the child.
Lonnie was having lunch in the courtyard when Mariana and her mother arrived. Mariana’s hair was pulled up. She looked beautiful. She had on tight white jeans and a light blue halter top. Her mother wore a faded floral dress. She fanned herself as Mariana kissed Lonnie on both cheeks.
She introduced her mother. Her mother didn’t speak English. “They feed you well here,” Mariana said, seeing the food on the table.
“Would your mother like some tachinos?” Lonnie asked.
Mariana asked her mother. They talked back and forth. Her mother kept saying the same thing. “She wants to lie in your hammock,” Mariana said, putting a tachino on a plate. The mother took a a tachino over to the hammock. She ate very slowly, fanning herself while Mariana talked.
“I have news,” Mariana said. “One of the Italians wants to marry me.”
“I thought you hated Italians,” Lonnie replied.
“We all do, Lonnie.”
“Why do you want to marry one?”
“He wants me to go to Italy. He’ll send money back to my family.”
“And you believe him?”
Mariana looked at her mother. She was fast asleep in the hammock, one arm stiff in the air holding a fan, the other across her forehead.
The landlord was bringing out fresh pineapple juice. He nodded to Mariana. “Anything else, señor?” he asked Lonnie. Lonnie shook his head. Mariana looked at her mother. She was fast asleep in the hammock, one arm stiff in the air holding a fan, the other across her forehead.
“What if the marriage doesn’t work out?” Lonnie asked.
“Why won’t it work out?”
“Anything can happen, Mariana. Are you going to pack up and come home?”
“You think I’d come back here?” she said. “I was arrested last month, Lonnie. I didn’t tell you that. I was in prison for a week. Do you know what it’s like?”
“I didn’t know you’d been arrested, Mariana,” he said.
“They’re cracking down everywhere,” she said, picking up a tachino and putting it down again. “Next time they’ll put me away for a year.”
“And you think marrying this Italian is the answer?”
“What else is there, Lonnie?” she said. “Do you want to marry me?”
“I can’t marry you.”
“Why can’t you?”
“So you lie. Everyone lies here. What’s so hard about that?”
“Look, Mariana, my friend’s been waiting a year to get his girlfriend out of the country. I know what’s involved. They’ll want to know what I do for a living. Can I support you? I’m a freelance journalist, Mariana. I don’t even know where my next pay check’s coming from.”
“So you lie. Everyone lies here. What’s so hard about that?”
“It won’t work.”
She stared at Lonnie for a minute.
“I thought you cared about me, Lonnie.”
“I do care about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She stood up from the table. She went over and shook her mother awake. They spoke quickly, then Mariana turned back to Lonnie.
“We’re going,” she said.
The mother got up slowly from the hammock.
“Estoy cansado,” her mother said.
She shuffled out of the courtyard and down the walk.
“Good-bye, Lonnie,” Mariana said.
“They’re all the same, señor,” he said. “There is no man. Don’t worry about her. Would you like fish for dinner?”
He watched them walking off towards the centre of town to catch a bus. The landlord came back . “They’re all the same, señor,” he said. “There is no man. Don’t worry about her. Would you like fish for dinner?”
“I’m going out,” Lonnie said.
“Will you eat later on?”
“Probably not.”
He walked out of the courtyard, hearing the landlord talking to his wife. His wife kept raising her voice. “Singao,” she said.
“Que son imposibles!” her husband shouted.
The government kept saying things would improve, but they never did. Better to avoid the truth.
Lonnie cut across Tegucigalpa to Quilto and then down Rio de Janeiro to the beach. He wondered if his architect friend would show up at some point. Maybe he went back to his fiancé in Matanzas. Lonnie hoped he wouldn’t mention what happened in Nueva Gerona. It didn’t pay to be honest. Better to avoid the truth. Like Mariana said, “Everyone lies here.”
It was easy once you understood the country.