Mona and Other Tales (2 page)

The Empty Shoes

GOSH! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? Heaven knows.... A while back, no date I can remember—everything was always so much the same that it was really difficult to distinguish one month from the next. Oh, but January was different. You know, January is the month of the
upitos
and the bellflowers, but it is also the month when the Three Wise Men pay us a visit.

The grass by the window was tall enough for their horses, and my shoes, a little bashful because they had holes in their tips, were there, waiting, openmouthed and a bit damp with evening dew.

It will soon be midnight.

“They will come after you're asleep,” my cousin had whispered in a confidential tone. “And they will leave your gifts on top of the shoes.” When I am asleep! But I couldn't fall asleep, I was hearing the crickets chirping outside, and I thought I heard steps too; but no, it was not them.

To sleep. I had to fall asleep, but how? My shoes were there on the windowsill, waiting.

I have to think about something else so I can fall asleep. Yes, that's it, I'll think about something else: “Tomorrow we have to trim the flight feathers and fill the water tank. After that I'll go by the brook and bring back a basket of honey berries. . . . I should not have brought down that nest that had two naked baby birds with gaping beaks and a look of fear in their eyes. . . .”

I woke up. It was so early that only a few scant rays of light were coming through the window. Almost blindly I walked to the window. How many surprises, I thought, were awaiting me. . . . But no. I touched the moist leather of my shoes: they were empty, completely empty.

Then my mother came and kissed me in silence, caressed my wet eyes with hands tired of washing dishes, nudged me softly to the edge of the bed, and slipped the shoes on my feet. “Come,” she whispered then, “the coffee is ready.” Then I went out and got soaked with dew. I had some flight feathers to trim.

Everything was so beautiful outside. So many bellflowers. So many of them you could walk over them without stepping on the earth, and so many
upito
flowers covering the ground that you couldn't see the holes in my shoes anymore.

Havana, 1963

The Glass Tower

EVER SINCE HE HAD ARRIVED in Miami, after the veritable odyssey of escaping his native country, noted Cuban author Alfredo Fuentes had not written a single line.

For some reason, since the day he arrived—and it had already been five years—he had found himself accepting all kinds of invitations to speak at conferences, to participate in cultural events or intellectual gatherings, and to attend literary cocktail and dinner parties where he was inevitably the guest of honor and, therefore, never given any time to eat, much less to think about his novel—or perhaps story—the one he had been carrying around in his head for years, and whose characters, Berta, Nicolás, Delfín, Daniel, and Olga, constantly vied for his attention, urging him to deal with their respective predicaments.

Berta's moral integrity, Nicolás's firm stance against mediocrity, Delfín's keen intelligence, Daniel's solitary spirit, and Olga's sweet and quiet wisdom not only clamored for the attention that he was unable to offer, they also reproached him constantly, Alfredo felt, because of the time he was spending with other people.

Most regrettable of all was that Alfredo hated those gatherings, but was incapable of refusing a gracious invitation (and what invitation isn't gracious?). He always accepted. Once there, he would be so brilliant and charming that he had earned a reputation, particularly among local writers, as a frivolous man who was something of a show-off.

On the other hand, if he were to turn down invitations to such gatherings at this point, everyone (including those who were critical of his facile eloquence) would consider it evidence of inferior breeding, selfishness, even a false sense of superiority. Thus, Alfredo found himself caught in an intricate web: he was well aware that if he continued to accept the endless flow of invitations, he would never write another word, and if he didn't, his prestige as a writer would soon fade into oblivion.

But it was also true that Alfredo Fuentes, rather than being at the center of those obliging crowds, would have much preferred to be alone in his small apartment—that is, alone with Olga, Delfín, Berta, Nicolás, and Daniel.

So pressing were his characters' appeals and so eager was he to respond that just a few hours earlier he had vowed to suspend all social activities and devote himself entirely to his novel—or story, since he didn't yet know exactly where all this might lead him.

Yes, tomorrow he was definitely going to resume his solitary and mysterious occupation. Tomorrow, because tonight it would be practically impossible for him not to attend the large party being given in his honor by the grande dame of the Cuban literary circles in Miami, Señora Gladys Pérez Campo, whom H. Puntilla had nicknamed “the Haydée Santamaría of the exile community.”
²

This event, however, was not merely cultural, but also had a practical purpose. Gladys had promised the writer that she would lay the foundation, that very evening, for a publishing house that would print the manuscripts that he had, at great risk, smuggled out of Cuba. Alfredo, incidentally, didn't have a penny to his name and this, of course, could give him a tremendous financial boost, as well as help to promote the works of other important but still unknown writers less fortunate than Alfredo, who already had five books to his credit.

“The publishing project will be a success,” Gladys had assured him on the phone. “The most prominent people in Miami will support you. They will all be here tonight. I am expecting you at nine, without fail.”

At five to nine, Alfredo crossed the vast, manicured garden toward the main door of the Pérez Campo mansion. The scent of flowers swept over him in waves, and he could hear pleasant melodies emanating from the top floor of the residence. As he listened to the music, Alfredo placed his hand against the outside wall of the house, and the stillness of the night conspired with the garden and the thickness of the wall to give him a sense of security, of peace almost, that he had not experienced for many years, too many years. . . . Alfredo would have preferred to remain there, outside the house, alone with his characters, listening to the music from far away. But, always keeping in mind the solid publishing project that would perhaps one day allow him to own a mansion like this one and that could also mean the future salvation of Olga, Daniel, Delfín, Berta, and Nicolás, he rang the doorbell.

Before one of the maids (hired specially for the reception) could open the door, an enormous Saint Bernard belonging to the Pérez Campos lunged toward him and began licking his face. This display of familiarity from the huge dog (which answered to the name of Narcisa) encouraged similar shows of affection from the other dogs, six Chihuahuas who welcomed Alfredo with a chorus of piercing barks. Fortunately, Gladys herself came to the rescue of her guest of honor.

Fashionably attired—although rather inappropriately for the climate—in an ankle-length skirt, boa, gloves, and a large hat, the hostess took Alfredo's arm and led him to the most select circle of guests, those who would also be most interested in the publishing venture. Gladys, at once solemn and festive, introduced him to the president of one of the city's most important banks (in his imagination Alfredo saw Berta making a face in disgust); to the executive vice president of the
Florida Herald,
the most influential newspaper in Miami (“A horrible, anti-Cuban paper,” he heard Nicolás's voice saying from a distance); to the governor's personal assistant; and to an award-winning lady poet (“A couple of serious bitches,” Delfín's sarcastic voice piped in loud and clear). The introductions continued: a distinguished minister who was a famous theology professor as well as the leader of the so-called Reunification of Cuban Families. (“What are you doing with these awful people?” Daniel shouted desperately from far away, causing Alfredo to trip just as he reached out for a famous opera singer's hand, and fall instead directly into the diva's ample bosom.) Gladys continued with her introductions as if nothing had happened: a famous woman pianist, two guitarists, several professors, and finally (here Gladys assumed a regal bearing), the Countess of Villalta. Born in the province of Pinar del Río, she was an elderly woman, no longer in possession of lands and villas, but still holding fast to her splendid title of nobility.

As he was on the point of bowing discreetly before the countess, Alfredo sensed that the characters of his budding opus were again urgently demanding his attention. And so, as he kissed the lady's hand, he decided to search for the pen and paper that he always carried in his pocket, in the hope of being able to jot down a few notes. But the countess misconstrued his intentions.

“I sincerely appreciate your giving me your address,” said the lady, “but, as I am sure you will understand, this is just not the right moment. I do promise to send you my card.”

And with that, the countess turned to the award-winning poetess, who had witnessed the scene and, apparently trying to help Alfredo, offered a suggestion: “Now that you've almost finished writing your address, why don't you give it to me? I do want to send you my latest book.”

And instead of taking notes as his characters demanded (by now Olga was moaning and Berta screaming), Alfredo had no choice but to write his address on the piece of paper.

Trays brimming with assorted cheeses, hors d'oeuvres, pastries, and drinks were being passed around. Trays that, amid new greetings and inquiries, Alfredo saw approach and then disappear without his ever having a chance to sample from them.

At midnight Gladys announced that, in order to make the gathering more intimate, they would all move to the glass tower. This elicited a very pleased “Aaah!” from the guests (even the countess joined in), and, led by their fashionable hostess, they set off immediately.

The glass tower, circular and transparent, rose at one side of the house like a gigantic chimney. While the guests climbed laboriously up the spiral staircase (except the countess, who was transported in a chair designed especially for this purpose), Alfredo again heard his characters' urgent cries. Imprisoned in Holguín, deep in the Cuban countryside, Delfín begged not to be forsaken; from New York, Daniel's groans sounded aggravated and menacing; from a small French village, Olga, sweet Olga with her pages still blank, looked at him with a combination of reproach and melancholy in her eyes; meanwhile Nicolás and Berta, right there in Miami, angrily demanded immediate participation in the narrative that he had still not begun. To appease them momentarily, Alfredo tried to raise his hand in a gesture of understanding, but, as he did this, he accidentally tousled the pianist's elaborate coiffure, and she in turn gave him an even more hateful look than Berta's.

By now they had all reached the glass tower. Alfredo was expecting the real conversation to begin at any moment; that is, they would finally start talking about the publishing plans and the first authors to be published. But just then, Gladys (who had changed into an even more sumptuous gown without anyone noticing) gestured with an elegant wave of her hand for the musicians to start playing. Soon the bank president was dancing with the wife of the executive vice president of the
Florida Herald,
who in turn began dancing with the governor's assistant. A college professor deftly whirled around the room in the strong arms of the opera singer, outclassed only by the celebrated poetess, who was now performing a prizewinning solo. Between the clicking of her heels and the frenetic undulations of her hips and shoulders, she careened over to Alfredo, who had no choice other than to join the dance.

When the music ended, Alfredo thought that the time had finally come to discuss the central issue of the gathering. But at another signal from Gladys, the orchestra struck up a dance number from Spain. And even the most reverend minister, in the arms of the old countess, dared to venture a few parsimonious steps. As the dancing continued and the operatic singer began to show off her high notes, Alfredo was sure he could hear quite distinctly the voices of his characters, now at very close range. Without interrupting his dance, he passed close by the glass wall and looked out into the garden, where he saw Olga, quivering desperately among the geraniums, begging to be rescued with silent gestures; farther away, by the perfectly trimmed ficus trees, Daniel was sobbing. At that moment, as the diva's notes reached a crescendo, Alfredo felt he could no longer excuse his own indolence and, still dancing, he grabbed a napkin in flight and began desperately to scribble some notes.

“What kind of a dance is this?” interrupted the executive vice president of the
Florida Herald.
“Do you also keep a record of your dance steps?”

Alfredo didn't know what to say. On top of it all, the pianist's stare, suspicious and alert, made him feel even more vulnerable. Wiping his brow with the napkin, he lowered his eyes in embarrassment and tried to pull himself together, but when he looked up again, there they were, Nicolás, Berta, and Delfín, already pressing against the glass walls of the tower. Yes, they had gathered here from different places to pound on the windowpanes and demand that Alfredo admit them (infuse them with life) into the pages of the novel—or story— that he had not even begun to write.

The six Chihuahuas began barking excitedly, and Alfredo thought that they too had seen his characters. Fortunately, however, their barking was just one of Gladys's bright ideas (or “exquisite touches,” as the countess called them) to entertain her guests. And entertain them she did when, following her steps and the beat of the orchestra drums, the Chihuahuas surrounded Narcisa the Saint Bernard, and, standing on their hind legs, imitated complicated dance steps with Narcisa herself as the central figure. For a moment Alfredo was sure he saw a sadness in the eyes of the huge Saint Bernard, as the dog looked over at him. Finally, the audience burst into applause, and the orchestra shifted to the soft rhythms of a Cuban
danzón.

Berta, Nicolás, and Delfín were now pounding even harder on the windows, while Alfredo, becoming more and more exasperated, whirled around in the arms of the award-winning poetess, Señora Clara del Prado (haven't we mentioned her by name yet?), who at that moment was confessing to the writer how difficult it was to get a book of poetry published.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Alfredo agreed mechanically, distracted by his characters, who were now struggling on the other side of the glass like huge insects drawn to a hermetically sealed street lamp.

“You couldn't possibly understand,” he heard the poet's voice counter.

“Why not?”

By then, out in the garden, Daniel and Olga had begun sobbing in unison.

“Because you are a novelist and novels always sell more than poems, especially when the author is famous like you. . . .”

“Don't make me laugh.”

By now Daniel's and Olga's sobs were no longer sobs at all but agonized screams that ended in a single, unanimous plea for help.

“Rescue us! Rescue us!”

“Come on,” urged the celebrated poetess, “stop acting so modest and tell me, just between you and me, how much do you get a year in royalties?”

And as if the screams coming from the garden were not enough to drive anyone out of his mind, Nicolás and Berta were now trying to break through the glass walls of the tower, with Delfín's enthusiastic encouragement.

“Royalties? Don't make me laugh. Don't you know that there's no copyright law in Cuba? All my books were published in other countries, while I was still in Cuba.”

“Rescue us, or we'll break down the door!” This was, without a doubt, Berta's infuriated voice.

“They're all thieves, I know that. But other countries don't have to abide by Cuban law.”

With their bare hands, and then their feet, Berta and Nicolás were beating on the glass wall, while the screams coming from the garden grew louder and louder.

“Other countries will adopt any law that allows them to plunder with impunity,” Alfredo asserted clearly, ready to abandon the poetess in order to save his characters, who seemed, strangely enough, to be gasping for air, although out in the open.