Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

“Okay, then. Just you and me.” José reached across the table and smacked Luis on the biceps. “We’ll celebrate you winning the hand of my fair maiden.”

Alma beamed, and Luis felt a surge of anticipation. It was an emotion he recognized from his youth when José—for it had always been José—came up with a plan of adventure and included him. But Luis had other reasons to look forward to this particular outing. Varadero more than anyplace reflected the economic miracle the Cuban government had wrought, while displaying the natural beauty of the island. The resort fairly flaunted what José had lost when he chose to abandon them. As for the timing, that too was perfect. Given that Celia had to be away, it would be only the two of them, not the triangle it had been all through their childhood, with him in one invisible corner.

CELIA pedalled toward her apartment, bone tired. She had caught herself treating an asthmatic child brought into emergency with an emotion that was dangerously close to apathy. She fully intended to complain to Luis again about the scheduling. Not that he had anything to do with it, but he was in a position to let other officials know how doctors felt. She smiled grimly. On the other hand, his being aware of how cranky she got when working long hours might be why he had not called all week; he did not want to listen to her whine. At least she had tomorrow off, and if he did call—

Just as she turned up the walk to her building the electricity went off, plunging the whole area into darkness. Partly due to an embargo that prevented Cuba from getting the petroleum needed to generate electricity, partly because so much of what was generated was utilized by resorts, and partly because old power plants were being shut down with increasing frequency for repairs, rolling blackouts had become a regular nuisance.

As Celia reached for the doorknob, a hand touched her back. She jumped, not frightened but startled. A bouquet of three large sunflowers was thrust in front of her.

“ Aye, Luis! You surprised me!”

“Perdón, mi amor. I thought you saw me. Before the lights went out.”

“I didn’t, no. I think I was half asleep already.”

Two boys came crashing out the door of the apartment building. “Doctora Celia!” the older boy exclaimed. “We’re going for candles. Can we borrow your bicycle?”

Celia handed the bike over to the boy. “Put it away when you get back, please.”

“Claro, Doctora.” He pedalled off with the smaller child behind him, standing on the spikes that protrude from the back axle of the Chinese-made bike.

Celia looked down at the flowers. They glowed pale yellow in the moonlight. “Gracias, Luis. Es una occasión especial?”

“The anniversary of our engagement. Celia, you must set a date!”

Celia sagged against the door frame. “Ay, Luis! How can you ask at a time like this? I am exhausted! These twelve-hour shifts—”

“It’s not my fault longer shifts are more efficient!”

Celia could count on one hand the number of times in her life she had lost her temper. And this was about to be one of them.

“Efficient for who?” she exploded. “The bureaucrat who draws up our schedule? How would you like to be the patient operated on by a doctor who has been on her feet for ten hours? It is not as if Cuba has a shortage of doctors! Or nurses or restroom attendants. Yet we’re all on these damned double shifts just to save on transportation costs. Surely you and your National Assembly comrades see how stupid that is!”

“I will not argue politics. Just set a date, any date! I can’t go on like this!”

Celia heard the desperation in his voice. Had she not been so tired she probably would have responded. As it was, it took all the willpower she could muster to bring her temper under control. “I told you before, Luis. I do not know. Not then and not now. Especially not now!”

He slumped forward as if hit from behind. “Because José is back, right?”

Suddenly the lights came on. Disco music spilled down on them from the balcony of Celia’s apartment four floors above.

Luis grimaced. “Liliana must be home.” He laid a hand on Celia’s arm. “Can we go somewhere?”

“I am going somewhere. To bed. To sleep. Goodnight, Luis.”

Seeing the desperate hope in his eyes, so like the eyes of hurting children and frightened parents she spent her day reassuring, she weakened just a little. “Thanks for the flowers. It will be wonderful waking up to them in the morning.”

She stepped inside and for a moment stood at the bottom of the stairs, gathering strength for the climb to her fourth-floor apartment. Even more than the tiredness, she felt a sense of weakness. The encounter with Luis—not his need but her own conciliatory words—had drained her.

The lights went out again and simultaneously the door crashed open to admit the boys who had gone for candles.

“Careful!” she warned, just in time to prevent them from bumping into her.

“You want a candle?” asked the younger child as the older one manoeuvred the bike through the darkness and into its customary parking place under the stairwell.

“No, gracias. I have some. Share them with the families on your floor.”

They bounded past her, a bit recklessly, she thought, given that it was pitch-black in the stairwell. She followed slowly. Living on the top floor was a great way to keep in shape, but oh, what she would not have given for a ground-floor apartment tonight!

By the time she reached the fourth level the electricity had come on again. As she walked along the corridor to her own apartment she noted the absence of disco music. Liliana must have gone to bed. She glanced at her watch. It was not yet ten. Stepping inside the apartment, she saw light coming from under the girl’s bedroom door and called, “Hola, Liliana.”

Getting no reply, she put her head into Liliana’s room. Liliana was in bed, wild dark curls splayed across her pillow, a textbook propped on her chest. She had not turned off her music after all but was wearing headphones. She slipped them off and smiled up at her aunt.

“You’re late. Tío Luis came by.” She glanced at the flowers in Celia’s hand. “Did he wait for you downstairs?”

“Yes. Pretty, aren’t they?” Celia reached down to stroke Liliana’s tumble of brown curls, a longer, wilder version of Celia’s own, and so like those of the girl’s now-dead mother. “Where did you get the CD player and headphones?”

“From a friend.” Liliana held up the chemistry book. “Want a bedtime story?”

Celia laughed. “That would put me to sleep for sure.” She touched the girl’s cheek. “Did you have a nice time at Playa Jibacoa?”

“Claro. I love that campismo. Have you ever stayed there?”

“Your mother and I and Luis and all our friends went there often,” Celia replied. “The swimming pool was brand new then. Is it still nice?”

“Terrific. The caretaker lives close by. His kids let us ride their horses.”

“Sounds fun.” She bent to kiss the girl’s forehead. “See you in the morning.”

“Not if you sleep in.” Liliana nestled the headset into her dark curls again.

“Oh, right.” Celia had forgotten that this was the last day of the pre-university students’ monthly week off. Liliana would be leaving early the next morning to return to boarding school. “In three weeks, then.”

She fell asleep almost immediately and could not have said, when she awoke, how long she had been sleeping. Or where she was waking to, and why there should be so many ghostlike people moving around in the shuttered dimness of a sickroom.

Fidel looked so tired, so very tired. If she was in her sixtieth, her last year of life, that made him what? Fifty-five? “You are young! You must go on!” she wanted to cry. But it was only a thought, a ragged intake of breath. He knelt by the bed and took both her hands in both of his; not callused now as they were that long time ago in the mountains, but soft, the hands of a man for whom everything was done but thinking, speaking, deciding. She did not want this clinging to her hand like a child clutching something fragile, something about to break. She wanted him to fling himself on her as he has done so many times in the past, not minding that her body was so much smaller than his or that his boots were dirtying the sheets. She wanted to tell him this, or better, show him, for had she not always had to show him? “Like this, my love. This is what I need. This is what you need. This is what our nation needs.” But she had no breath. Not even enough to whisper “Yes,” when he promised, “Our work will go on. The Cuba our people build will be your Cuba, Celia. Yours.”