the distant ocean, almost like ships, sailing someplace … .
She had lived her whole life upon this island, every day of it, had never been farther from this house than Havana, and that on just two occasions: once when she was a teenage girl, on a marvelous expedition with her older sister, and once when her son Maximo was sworn in as the minister of finance.
She had met Fidel Castro on that visit to the capital, felt the power of his personality, like a fire that warmed everyone within range. Oh, what a man he was, tall, virile, full of life.
No wonder Maximo orbited Fidel’s star. His brother Jorge, her eldest, had been one of Castro’s most dedicated disciples, espousing Marxism and Cuban nationalism, refusing to listen to the slightest criticism of his hero. Jorge, dead of heart failure at the age of forty-two, another dreamer.
All the Sedanos were dreamers, she thought, poverty-stricken dreamers trapped on this sun-washed island in a sun-washed sea, isolated from the rest of humankind, the rest of the species … .
She thought of Jorge when she saw Mercedes, his
widow, climb from the car. The men in the car glanced at her seated on the porch, didn’t wave, merely drove on, leaving Mercedes standing in the road.
“Hola, Mima.”
Jorge, cheated of life with this woman, whom he loved more than anything, more than Castro, more than his parents, more than anything, for the Sedanos were also great lovers.
“Hola, my pretty one. Come sit beside me.”
As she stepped on the porch, Dona Maria said, “Thank you for coming.”
“It is nothing. We both loved Jorge … .”
“Jorge …”
Mercedes looked at Maria’s hands, took them in her own, as if they weren’t twisted and crippled. She kissed the older woman, then sat on a bench beside her and looked at the sea.
“It is still there. It never changes.”
“Not like we do.”
The emotions twisted Mercedes’s insides, made her eyes tear. Here in this place she had had so much, then with no warning it was gone, as if a mighty tide had swept away all that she valued, leaving only sand and rock.
Jorge—oh, what a man he was, a dreamer and lover and believer in social justice. A true believer, without a selfish bone in his body … and of course he had died young, before he realized how much reality differed from his dreams.
He lived and died a crusader for justice and Cuba and all of that … and left her to grow old alone … lonely in the night, looking for someone who cared about something besides himself.
She bit her lip and looked down at Dona Maria’s hands, twisted and misshapen. On impulse leaned across and kissed the older woman on the cheek.
“God bless you, dear child,” Dona Maria said.
Ocho came walking along the road, trailed by four of the neighborhood children who were skipping and laughing
and trying to make him smile. When he turned in at his mother’s gate, the children scampered away.
Everyone on the porch turned and looked at him, called a greeting as he quickly covered the three or four paces of the path. Ocho was the Greek god, with the dark hair atop a perfect head, a perfect face, a perfect body … tall, with broad shoulders and impossibly narrow hips, he moved like a cat. He dominated a room, radiating masculinity like a beacon, drawing the eyes of every woman there. Even his mother couldn’t take her eyes from him, Mercedes noted, and grinned wryly. This last child—she bore Ocho when she was forty-four—even Dona Maria must wonder about the combination of genes that produced him.
Normally an affable soul, Ocho had little to say this evening. He grunted monosyllables to everyone, kissed his mother and Mercedes and his sisters perfunctorily, then found a corner of the porch in which to sit.
Women threw themselves at Ocho, and he never seemed to notice. It was almost as if he didn’t want the women who wanted him. He was sufficiently different from most of the men Mercedes knew that she found him intriguing.
She had lived her whole life upon this island, every day of it, had never been farther from this house than Havana, and that on just two occasions: once when she was a teenage girl, on a marvelous expedition with her older sister, and once when her son Maximo was sworn in as the minister of finance.
She had met Fidel Castro on that visit to the capital, felt the power of his personality, like a fire that warmed everyone within range. Oh, what a man he was, tall, virile, full of life.
No wonder Maximo orbited Fidel’s star. His brother Jorge, her eldest, had been one of Castro’s most dedicated disciples, espousing Marxism and Cuban nationalism, refusing to listen to the slightest criticism of his hero. Jorge, dead of heart failure at the age of forty-two, another dreamer.
All the Sedanos were dreamers, she thought, poverty-stricken dreamers trapped on this sun-washed island in a sun-washed sea, isolated from the rest of humankind, the rest of the species … .
She thought of Jorge when she saw Mercedes, his
widow, climb from the car. The men in the car glanced at her seated on the porch, didn’t wave, merely drove on, leaving Mercedes standing in the road.
“Hola, Mima.”
Jorge, cheated of life with this woman, whom he loved more than anything, more than Castro, more than his parents, more than anything, for the Sedanos were also great lovers.
“Hola, my pretty one. Come sit beside me.”
As she stepped on the porch, Dona Maria said, “Thank you for coming.”
“It is nothing. We both loved Jorge … .”
“Jorge …”
Mercedes looked at Maria’s hands, took them in her own, as if they weren’t twisted and crippled. She kissed the older woman, then sat on a bench beside her and looked at the sea.
“It is still there. It never changes.”
“Not like we do.”
The emotions twisted Mercedes’s insides, made her eyes tear. Here in this place she had had so much, then with no warning it was gone, as if a mighty tide had swept away all that she valued, leaving only sand and rock.
Jorge—oh, what a man he was, a dreamer and lover and believer in social justice. A true believer, without a selfish bone in his body … and of course he had died young, before he realized how much reality differed from his dreams.
He lived and died a crusader for justice and Cuba and all of that … and left her to grow old alone … lonely in the night, looking for someone who cared about something besides himself.
She bit her lip and looked down at Dona Maria’s hands, twisted and misshapen. On impulse leaned across and kissed the older woman on the cheek.
“God bless you, dear child,” Dona Maria said.
Ocho came walking along the road, trailed by four of the neighborhood children who were skipping and laughing
and trying to make him smile. When he turned in at his mother’s gate, the children scampered away.
Everyone on the porch turned and looked at him, called a greeting as he quickly covered the three or four paces of the path. Ocho was the Greek god, with the dark hair atop a perfect head, a perfect face, a perfect body … tall, with broad shoulders and impossibly narrow hips, he moved like a cat. He dominated a room, radiating masculinity like a beacon, drawing the eyes of every woman there. Even his mother couldn’t take her eyes from him, Mercedes noted, and grinned wryly. This last child—she bore Ocho when she was forty-four—even Dona Maria must wonder about the combination of genes that produced him.
Normally an affable soul, Ocho had little to say this evening. He grunted monosyllables to everyone, kissed his mother and Mercedes and his sisters perfunctorily, then found a corner of the porch in which to sit.
Women threw themselves at Ocho, and he never seemed to notice. It was almost as if he didn’t want the women who wanted him. He was sufficiently different from most of the men Mercedes knew that she found him intriguing.
Similar Books
