Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

Yet some part of her was more than entertaining romantic fantasies. Part of her seemed determined to turn fantasy into reality. Was that what Miguel had meant by “one of your own ghosts”? Was some suppressed part of her psyche beginning to assert itself? If so, she was not at all sure she wanted to face it. The last thing she cared to discover was that at the core of her being lay a thirty-five-year-old bimbo ready to go off the deep end in pursuit of a phantom “perfect love.”

She turned her attention to the traffic, which was heavier on that part of the Carretera Central that dropped out of the mountains down to sea-level Santiago. She followed the boulevard past Lecuy’s heroic statue of Antonio Maceo on a rearing horse, the Bronze Titan’s arm outstretched in a Vamonos! gesture to battalions of independence fighters who now existed merely as a blur in the nation’s collective memory.

Santiago was a city of memorials to fallen heroes—Frank País, Abel Santamaría, José Martí, Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, and only God knew how many others. But a memorial to Celia Sánchez? Maybe, somewhere in the city. Celia had never heard of it and hoped it did not exist. Men made war, and for that some were remembered. If that was what it took to inspire memorials, better not to have one. Sánchez did have memorials in Manzanillo, Media Luna, and Pilón, plus that bronze tucked away behind the museum in Parque Lenin. But those were for her life, not for taking part in some slaughter. They were for a woman whose courage she desperately wished she had.

CELIA drove down Avenida de las Américas and past the medical school without a twinge of guilt for having cut out of the conference. She turned off the boulevard into a quiet suburban neighbourhood. It was early evening. Seeing no car in the Morceau driveway, she wondered if they might have gone out. Then she realized that she was driving the family car and smiled. Of course they would be at home.

Celia knocked on the front door. Getting no answer, she pushed it open and called, “Franci? Philip? Anybody home?”

Silence. Celia could see through the living room to the kitchen. No one was there. Maybe they were out back with the mothers. Or in the bedroom enjoying a pre-dinner intimacy? Celia hesitated. Should she knock again? Or go say hello to the mothers, to give Philip and Franci time to finish whatever they were up to? Just then Franci came from the hallway into the living room.

“Celia? I thought I heard you.”

Still Celia hesitated. Franci’s voice had a hoarse quality, as it did when she had been crying.

“Don’t just stand there, Girl! Come on in!” Franci reached down to flip on a table lamp. In the second her face bent low to the lamp, Celia saw that she had indeed been crying. Franci straightened up and headed for the kitchen. Celia followed.

“Where is Philip?”

“Working. A Venezuelan ship had to be piloted in this afternoon. He won’t be home till near midnight.” As she talked, Franci kept her back to Celia. “He made some great bouillabaisse before he left. We had it for lunch. I thought I’d heat it up for our supper, if that’s okay with you?”

Celia walked over and leaned around to look into her friend’s face. “Franci, did you and Philip have a fight?”

“No way!” Franci lit the gas burner under the pot. “Why do you ask?”

“I have never known you to spend a Saturday evening in tears. Not even when a date stood you up.”

“Oh that. It’s nothing. Las Madres just got to me. Again. What do you want to drink?” She opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of orange juice. “How about this? Squeezed with Mamí’s own sacred hands.”

“Perfect.”

Franci brought the juice and two glasses to the table and filled one for each of them. Celia suddenly felt famished. No wonder. All she had eaten that day was one small mandarin. She took a long, grateful swallow. “Um. Delicious.”

“Nice moustache you’ve got there.” Franci leaned across the table to wipe a skim of orange from Celia’s upper lip.

“So what is going on with the mothers?” Celia asked.

“The damned baby thing again.” Franci sighed heavily. “They gang up on me. Not when Philip’s around, but when they catch me alone. It’s getting so bad that I find excuses to stay at the office when he’s working late, to avoid having to deal with them. If I hadn’t been expecting you, I would have gone there today when he left for the harbour.”

“Gang up on you how?”

“Oh, they’re creative geniuses, those two.” Franci rose and crossed the kitchen to the stove. She tested the temperature of the bouillabaisse and finding it satisfactory, filled bowls for herself and Celia. Celia carried them to the table. Franci placed bread on the table between them. Celia could barely wait until Franci was in her seat before starting to eat. She could not remember ever being so hungry. She was about to say something about how good the food was when Franci spoke again.

“Today it was my mother who made the first pass. She came in with this vile potion that smelled like ditch water mixed with horse pee and wanted me to drink it. According to her it was a foolproof fertility enhancer. I’m sure it was. It would have enhanced the fertility of every amoeba in my gut.” Franci took a sip of the bouillabaisse broth but without showing real interest in the food.

“She made you drink it?” Celia asked, tearing off a hunk of bread.

“Oh, I got rid of the crap. Getting rid of her was the hard part. She couldn’t just hand it to me. She had to give me a half-hour dissertation on how fertile all my siblings have been, and all her siblings, and well, I know she’s just trying to reassure herself that it’s not her fault. All the same, it makes me crazy.”

Franci gave up trying to eat. She leaned back in her chair and went on. “She finally leaves and I’m just pouring the crap down the drain when his mother comes in. That’s another thing that drives me crazy. The redhead can get all the way down the stairs from the garage and into the house and be right behind me and I won’t have heard a sound, not a sound! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve turned around and found her standing there and nearly had a heart attack. I’ve begged her not to do it, even yelled at her. But it doesn’t do any good.” Franci stopped talking and sat there looking sullen.

Celia motioned to Franci’s bowl. “Eat. It’s wonderful.”

Franci smiled. “Yeah. He is, isn’t he?” She picked a shrimp out by the tail and nibbled at it. “Philip’s mother catches me dumping the stuff down the drain and knows exactly what it is—that’s how I know they colluded. They always do. She puts her arms around me and says, in that fake French accent she’s affected lately, ‘Ma chérie, I don’t blame you a bit. It is not your fault. Phee-leep, he just needs more encouragement, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps you have a little something, you know, like they sell in the boutique at Hotel Santiago? A little something for the boudoir? In lace, maybe, or black silk?’”

“No!” Celia, in process of swallowing a spoonful of soup, sputtered with laughter, sending droplets across the table.

“Damn, Celia! Don’t be such a slob!” Franci howled, but she started laughing too. “Have you seen that sex-tease stuff they sell in the boutiques of all the big hotels? Net stockings, nippleless bras, crotchless panties, all at the most outrageous prices! Those Italians pigs who come to Cuba for a sex holiday snap it up for their prostitutes.”

“Naughty, naughty!” Celia wagged a finger at her. “Mustn’t be racist.”

“Right.” Franci got up to get a butter knife. “I should have said male pigs. Wouldn’t want to sound racist when I meant to be sexist .”