Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (10 page)

“By getting too involved. Getting carried away.”

I did not respond. We sat in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts. This was a difficult conversation for both of us. Mima coughed and turned toward me again.

“Frankie, how fond are you of this girl?”

I pursed my lips, wondering whether it would be prudent to tell her how crazy I was about Magda.

“She's pretty,” I said. “And smart. And nice.”

Mima's brow furrowed, and she rearranged her body on the sofa. “Frankie, you have always been a good boy. But there's a bit of the rebel in you.”

I nodded, thinking about my skirmishes with Antonio, but I wasn't about to admit my shortcomings.

“Rebelliousness can get you into a peck of trouble,” she said. “Trouble that can last a lifetime.”

I stared silently out the window, trying to bring my emotions to heel.

“Now, about this girl—”

“Magda.”

“Magda,” she repeated, turning the word over in her mouth as if she could get a sense of my girlfriend by tasting her name. “You must respect her.”

“I do.”

When my mother spoke next her voice was fiercer, like the words had been burning a hole inside her and she was forced to expel them. “There are places on a girl's body that you are never to touch.
Never
, Frankie. Not until you are married.”

I nodded in embarrassment.

“Look at me, Frankie. Am I making myself clear?”

I looked at her eyes and saw a trace of fright in them, not something my mother often showed. It scared me.

“I understand.”

“No, you don't understand,” said Mima. “That's the problem. Boys your age never understand—”

I sighed in exasperation. “I do understand,” I said as convincingly as possible. “I would never—”

Mima studied me carefully before standing up. “Enough,” she said. Her expression signaled that a headache was blooming. I knew it was best not to press the issue.

“You are not to call on Magda until your father speaks with you. Go with him to work tonight. Help him out while you talk it over.” She waved me away. “Finish your homework so you're ready to go.”

I stood and left the room while Mima expelled her breath.

• • •

When Pipo and I entered the factory where he worked that evening, hundreds of bags of fertilizer were lined up for inventory. Pipo handed me a clipboard and told me to start counting. The smell pervading the building made me sneeze and my eyes began to water. After a couple of hours, Pipo and I sat down for a break.

“I understand you want to call on a girl,” he said.

“I do.”

Pipo tapped a cigarette out of its pack and struck a match against a wooden plank. He inhaled deeply, threw his head back, and blew the smoke high into the air.

“This job,” he said circling his hand around his head. “This is not easy. Standing on your feet all night, away from your mother, away from you kids.” I nodded. “I want something better for you, Frankie. I don't want you to have to work this hard.”

“I know,” I said. And I did. I knew how tired Pipo was when he got home in the mornings, sinking into bed like his life depended on it, his clothes stinking, his eyes puffy and red from the chemicals that fouled the factory air. I looked at him in appreciation. He smiled and patted me on the knee.

“This girl, do you love her?”

“I think I do. She's—”

“It doesn't matter what she is,” he said.

I was a little hurt that my father had cut me off so abruptly. I wanted to talk about Magda, to tell him about her thick curly eyelashes, about how her eyes sparkled when she laughed.

“What matters is that you go to college. No matter what, you must go to college.”

I nodded. We sat staring at the bags of fertilizer for a couple of minutes.

“Things are getting crazy, Frankie.”

“How so?”

“People are disappearing. Like Carlos. You remember Carlos?” I
nodded. “I used to see him every day at the coffee shop. For years he was there. Now, gone.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“Who knows? Maybe to America. Maybe one of the CDRs got him. Maybe he's in jail—or dead. You have to be smart to survive today—and educated. Do you know what I'm saying?”

“I know. Mima says the same thing. So does Abuelo.”

“It's important. I can't stress it enough.” Pipo sat silent for a moment before adding, “It's okay to be in love, but you still need to get an education. Promise me you'll go to college.”

“I will. Don't worry about it.”

“It's a father's job to worry, Frankie. That's just how it is. Now about this girl …”

“What about her?”

“There are limits as to what you can do with a girl. You know about limits, don't you, Frankie?”

“I know.”

“Do we need to talk some more?”

“No, I think we're good.”

“Okay, Frankie. Just don't let anything you do with this girl keep you from going to college.”

“It's okay,” I said. “I get it.”

The next evening, before the sun went down, I went to Magda's house and rang the bell, requesting to speak with her father. As if on cue, Señor Hernández appeared at the door and led me up the stairs to his study. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a Persian rug cushioned our feet. A silver vase held a profusion of flowers, and a portrait of Magda's mother stared down at us from a gilded frame.

Men of Señor Hernández's status were larger than life in Cuba. They rode about in chrome-laden cars, cutting dashing figures in white linen suits. They frequented bars, casinos, and nightclubs and
oversaw their sugar, coffee, and real estate holdings with great authority and panache. But it was all theater. In real life—in the home—women held all the power. This was no less the case in the villa.

When we entered señor's study, he left the door slightly ajar. It crossed my mind that he might have done this so Magda's mother could eavesdrop on our conversation.

I straightened up as Magda's father struck a match to light his cigar. He bit off the end, then slowly turned the cigar in his mouth as he inhaled. I mustered the courage to speak.

“I was wondering, señor.” I cleared my throat and started again. “I was wondering if—”

“If what?” he said, eyeing me with curiosity. He smiled slightly as if he found me amusing.

“If I could have permission to see Magda here—to study, señor.”

Magda's father looked me up and down. “To study,” he repeated in a gravelly voice.

He blew out his match and dropped it into an ashtray as he settled himself in a mahogany chair behind his desk. “What are your intentions, then?”

I looked around, confused. I didn't know what he meant by “intentions.” I felt like he had sprung a trap.

“Señor?”

“Your intentions, young man,” he said in a louder voice.

“My intentions, señor, are to study with your daughter—if I have your permission, that is.”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose that would be all right.” His eyes twinkled briefly. For some reason, it crossed my mind that he was playing with me, and I wondered why he might do that.

He interrupted my thoughts. “But there are rules: You can only come
one
night a week for
one
hour—to study. And you can't overstay your time. You can't meet my daughter on the street. And you can't touch her—
ever.
Do you understand?”

“I understand, señor. Thank you, señor.”

I backed out of the room giddy with delight. I met Magda on the staircase and whispered the good news to her. I was beaming, hardly believing my good luck. She seemed happy, but not too surprised.

I showed myself at the window and gave a thumbs-up to my cousins who were waiting below. When I left the house, they descended on me like a pack of hyenas, laughing and jumping around. Pipi wanted to know what Magda's father had said, and Luis wanted to know what kind of cigar he smoked.

Gilbert had only one question, “Did they give you anything good to eat?”

The next night I showed up at the villa, and Magda and I went off to study together. Whenever I visited, Magda's mother, Estel, would bring us cheeses and meats on a silver tray. After placing the food on the table, she'd spend some time chatting with us before retiring to a corner of the room to sew.

I could see a strong family resemblance between Magda and her mother. Estel was quite a beauty, slim and raven-haired with a dazzling smile.

After a short time, my once-a-week visits turned into two, and two turned into three. Before I knew it, I was visiting Magda almost every night. I was in heaven. Magda and I studied and talked, talked and studied. I still had not touched her hand, but it was a thrill just to look at her, to be with her.

Señora Hernández busied herself with her needlework while chaperoning us, but I sensed that she was taking in our every word. I complimented her on her appearance and took an interest in her sewing. She told me about her job at city hall in Havana, and I told her about sports and political issues at school. Little by little, she was starting to warm to me. Little by little, I was becoming part of the family.

Señora Hernández also told me things about the family I never could've guessed—about Magda's grandfather's involvement in politics under the Batista regime, about the family's stakes in luxury hotels, about family businesses being seized by Fidel.

Slowly I was becoming privy to the trials and tribulations Magda's family had endured under this regime. I was beginning to understand that, despite the vast differences in our social standing, our political beliefs and philosophy were perfectly aligned.

And this was cementing our relationship in a way that transcended everything else.

The summer between my eighth and ninth grades, Castro made it a graduation requirement for all boys to spend their summer vacations helping poor farmers harvest their crops. The idea was to help us to identify with the revolution by giving us firsthand experience of the peasants' lives and pain.

Gilbert, Jabao, Pipi, Luis, and I traveled with many other students to the hills of Oriente Province in the Sierra Maestra to do our part. We helped various families harvest coffee, tobacco, and other crops during the day, and we slept in their barns at night. We were required to do a good day's work, and the farmers were required to feed us.

I was assigned to a farmer named Manuel, a friendly man in his mid-thirties. His wife and six children all worked the fields. It was a two-month stint of tedious, backbreaking labor, but it was work I was used to, work I had done.

Oriente Province was rugged and beautiful, filled with towering royal palms that provided palm oil, lumber, and roofing material. The Cauto River offered water for drinking, bathing, and laundry. My cousins and friends met there every Sunday to swim. We even managed to catch some fish for Manuel during the height of a hurricane.

Although working the fields was not the way I wanted to spend my summer, my biggest concern was that I was unable to see Magda.

Before I left, I told my favorite aunt about how much I cared for Magda. She went to her old, wooden jewelry box and retrieved a ring—a trinket really—inset with small fake diamonds. I looked at it
and pictured putting it on Magda's finger one day. The thought took my breath away.

“Take it,” urged my aunt. “Someday you might want to give it to Magda. Regardless of its worth, a ring is a symbol of love. A circle has no beginning and no end—just like love. Keep it in your pocket, Frankie. You'll know when the time is right to take it out.”

I took her advice. While working, I would sink my hand into my pocket and finger the ring as if it were a magic charm that would allow me to touch Magda's cheek, to run my hands through her hair, and to eventually win her heart.

When I went to sleep at night, I would place the ring safely under my pillow and picture Magda's body lying next to mine in bed. When I awoke, the first thing I did was slip my hand under the pillow to retrieve the ring. If my fingers didn't find it immediately I'd panic, afraid it had been lost or stolen.

I thought about things that might make Magda happy. She was always thrilled with the smallest tokens of affection. I thought about being able to do things for her every day of the week.

During the summer of 1963, I did not see Magda, but I held her gently in my heart. And, for the time being, that was enough.

When I saw Magda on the first day of school, she looked more beautiful than ever. Over the summer her features had become more defined, her legs longer, her body more curvaceous. She seemed more poised, more elegant, more self-assured. When she spoke, her voice was warm, soft, and refined.

Magda drew people to her. She charmed them with her infectious laugh, the kind that made others join the fun. When I was near her, my spirits were lighter. I felt smarter, happier, like a cat luxuriating in the afternoon sun.

Magda employed her quick wit to soften the edges of angry remarks students sometimes hurled at each other. She soothed their fears about rumors that the
Fidelistas
were beating, torturing, and kidnapping people who disagreed with their views, fears that filled even the most level-headed students with angst. Magda was not only my darling, she was becoming the darling of my entire school.

In some ways, the lives of Cuban teenagers in the early '60s mimicked the lives of our peers in America. We partied, danced, and had an occasional beer. We learned new dances—the Frug, the Monkey, the Twist. We talked about famous singers and movie stars, and we assuaged our fears with the rhythms of rock 'n' roll.

My cousins and friends visited Magda's home, and her parents often drove her to my house. We double-dated with Miriam and Antonio, spinning our 45 rpm records and dancing the jitterbug in Magda's living room. We listened to the melancholy lyrics of “Silhouettes
on the Shade” and danced to the romantic strains of “Put Your Head on My Shoulder.” Posters of the Everly Brothers, Bobby Darin, and Paul Anka were taped to our bedroom walls.