Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

As she stared up into the intermingled leaves of the marañon and its strangler mate, she knew there was something else that made a man and a woman’s relationship different from this great tree and the smaller one that was swallowing it. The marañon had no defences, no thorns or toxic bark to fend off its subtle attacker. But she, Celia, was not so helpless. A warrior mother she’d had, a warrior sister, and yes, a warrior soul—the soul of her namesake who became a commander not to command men but so none could command her. No one would ever again take from her what she did not want to give.

She caught a movement from the corner of her eye, turned her head, but saw nothing. She ceased rocking and as she had learned to do from Miguel’s letters, sat very still, watching until she saw the movement again. It was Miguel, who had stopped when he saw her sitting there, now striding forward. She went to the edge of the porch and he, standing on the ground below so that they were the same height, greeted her in a full-body hug.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“About an hour.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“It was kind of last minute. I have been working weekends, hoping to get a few days off in a row. As soon as I had permission, I caught the next train to Santiago to see Liliana. Then came here because—well, this will be my last chance before you leave.”

“Yes.” The single word told her he was in waiting mode, waiting to find out whether she had come to say goodbye, or if not, why exactly she had come.

“I want to visit the Comandancia again,” she said in a low voice.

He looked at her for a long moment, looked into her, she felt, and understood exactly what she was asking.

“I know now,” she said hesitantly, “that I went there to find my self , not… the other Celia. I couldn’t accept the choices I was being offered and, well, I guess I hoped the past was something I could… disappear into.”

He listened to her self-analyze, neither nodding nor contradicting. He was silent a moment, then looked up the mountain toward the Comandancia, and said, “If we wait until sunset when the guides have gone down we could stay the night up there.”

“Even if I do not know…?”

She did not finish the sentence, did not know how to finish it. She still had occasional feelings of deja vu but had not had a full-blown hallucination in more than a year. That did not mean that there was no Sánchez left in her psyche. It might reappear at any time and if it was going to, where more likely than at the Comandancia?

It was not that she needed to know whether it could happen again because to her, the Sánchez persona, whether large or small, real or imaginary, was an integral part of her being. What she needed to know was in a question she did not ask, but which Miguel answered with a very soft kiss. “Don’t worry. I’m not afraid of her ghost. Or yours.”

She would have fallen off the porch into his arms, but he stepped up and past her. “I’ve been out since before sunrise and I’m starving. How about breakfast?”

She laughed. “At three in the afternoon? How about lunch ?”

“If you insist,” he grinned, washing his hands and reaching for a skillet.

Celia looked around the room. It was smaller than she remembered. Miguel must have guessed at its impression because he said, “If I had known there would be two living here, I might have built a bigger cabin.” He paused and added, “A juita takes up more space than you’d think.”

“You built the cabin yourself?” Celia was impressed.

“I did,” he said over his shoulder as he broke eggs into a bowl.

“And the bed.” The reason the room seemed cramped was because in addition to the narrow cot where she had napped before, there was, leaning against the wall, the headboard of a double bed, new and intricately carved. “So this is the ‘little woodworking project’ you wrote about!”

She knelt to study the birds, leaves, and vines carved with such painstaking care, a design that echoed elements of the Sánchez memorial. “You do fine things to wood.”

“Wood does fine things to me. I love working with it.” He set two plates on the table, each heaped with yellow eggs, a brown splat of beans, and slices of red tomato.

“Here you go. I may not be the best cook in Cuba but I am the fastest.”

For a few minutes they ate in silence, ravenously. When he had almost cleaned his plate, he flipped the last bit of egg over her head. She turned around in time to see the big tree rat gobble the tidbit. “What will you do with the juita when you leave?” she asked.

“Do with him?” Miguel looked surprised. “Nothing. He doesn’t need me. I’m not even sure he likes me. He just doesn’t want to waste energy looking for food. Most animals don’t.”

“Interesting,” Celia said, but in truth, she was not much interested in the tree rat. “What about your things? That headboard looks heavy. How will you get it down the mountain?”

“On the mule, I hope.”

“What mule?”

“There’s one that hangs around up there.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the Comandancia. “I see him in the forest now and again, and if I’ve got any food on me, we share it. Some of the guides tried to catch him but so far I’m the only one who has got near him. I might be able to put a rope on him and persuade him to pack some of the heavier items down. But I’d let him go again. That animal should not be domesticated.”

“Why not?”

“You know how long a mule’s legs are, right?” Miguel held his hand to a little above her knee. “A metre or less. But this mule, I swear I have seen him put a hoofprint into something two metres behind his rump.”

“I know that mule!” Celia exclaimed.

“You do?” Miguel looked at her quizzically. “From where?”

“It’s a story,” Celia said. “I will tell you sometime.”

So she had not, after all, told him everything there was to know about her, nor had he told her everything about himself. How long would that take?

“I applied for a transfer to the hospital in Baracoa,” she said abruptly.

“Really?” He reached across to touch her hand. “Did you get it?”

“No.”

He swallowed hard and looked away. “Too bad. Baracoa’s a nice town.”

“Your hometown,” she said.

“Yes. There is Moa farther west, but it’s out of the question. With the nickel smelter and all, a filthy place.”

“I know.”

He walked to the door and gazed out into the forest where, although she saw only a wall of trees, he must be seeing a universe. “I’m looking forward to Parque Humboldt. There is a little bay with manatees.” He smiled at her but it was not the happiest smile she had ever seen. “Humboldt is a habitat of the ivory-billed woodpecker. They say there are none left in Cuba. I’m going to be the one to prove them wrong. However long it takes.”

She followed him to the door and put her arms around his waist. “What about Playa Maguana? It’s only twenty-four kilometres from Parque Humboldt.”

He stepped back as if to get a better look at her. “Have you ever been there? Or even to that part of the island?”

What was he looking for? To see if she was crazy? Well, no, she could have told him. I am crazy often enough that I know perfectly well when I’m not. “I went there with Liliana, when we were doing our around-Cuba, every-trip-a-different-place thing.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“Um, no.” She had not told him because she was not sure she would get the job and did not know how he would feel about it if she did. Or because she did not want to know how he felt about it—not until she was sure of what she wanted, and exactly why. Three days there, staying at a nearby campismo, had revealed that Playa Maguana was a community where she could get back to the hands-on care of children she missed so much. At Playa Maguana she would have an opportunity to compare the difference between children’s health in rural Cuba with that of the urban children she had always treated. She could use skills she had learned and learn things she did not know.