Waiting for Snow in Havana (9 page)

It was second grade. It must have been. Or maybe it was the first half of third grade. It couldn't have been any later than that, because the world changed over Christmas vacation in third grade. The exact date is inconsequential. What matters is that it happened, and I was there, and that I came away from it a changed boy.

I knew that some of the kids at my school were very wealthy. I knew this because even in my own neighborhood, our house was relatively small. Crammed with valuables, but still small. Eugenio's house was much larger, and so was Gerardito's. I knew this also because my parents told me that some of my classmates were fabulously wealthy. But I had no idea what wealth really was until I went to that party.

It was a birthday party for the son of the man who owned the largest sugar company in Cuba. This was sort of like owning the largest steel mills in Pittsburgh or Chicago around the same time. Or owning an American railroad in the late nineteenth century.

Sugar Boy was one of my classmates, and he invited the entire class to his birthday party.

No one else had ever done that. Birthday parties were rites of inclusion and exclusion. Always for a select number, never for all. But this family could do it. They could have invited the entire school, for that matter. Perhaps even every boy in the
Social Register,
some of whom were unfortunate enough to attend other schools.

I started off the day on the wrong foot.

“Oh my God, today's the day of the birthday party, and I forgot to buy a present.”

This wasn't what I wanted to hear my mother saying.

“What do you mean? Are you saying that I won't have a present to bring to the party?”

“I mean I forgot about this party completely, and now we don't have enough time to go down to
Los Reyes Magos
to buy the kind of present we need. We only have one hour to get ready and another half hour to drive all the way out to the party.”

Los Reyes Magos
was the largest and finest toy store in Havana. And it was far from our house, eastward, in the heart of the city. The party was in the opposite direction, beyond the western suburbs of Havana.

That toy store was my favorite place in the whole world. A temple to be entered cautiously, with few expectations. Perhaps one might exit with a small token of its vast, wondrous treasure. Perhaps one might find some of the items displayed there under the Christmas tree, brought there by
Santicló,
or on January 6, by the Three Magi, who also brought presents, and after whom the store was named.

“Oh no, I can't go to the party without a present! I can't, I can't.”

“Yes you can.”

“How? Tell me, how can I go to this party without a present? You have to bring presents to a birthday party.”

“Don't worry. I'm sure we can find something here at home you can bring.”

This was worse than I had thought at first.

“No, no, no! I can't bring him one of my used toys. No!”

“Oh, yes, don't worry. We'll find something you've barely used, and no one will know it's not brand-new.”

At this point I started praying for some kind of miracle.

“What? What do I have that isn't used? I play with all my toys.”

How well I remember the exact spot where this desperate conversation took place. It was in the dining room, right by the window that faced Chachi's house and her bitter-orange tree, the window opposite to Visiting Jesus and the house with the breadfruit tree. It was the window under which my mom kept her sewing machine. Her favorite spot.

“Don't worry. Let's take a look in your room. We'll find something.”

I refused and started crying. I might have thrown a fit of sorts too, throwing myself on the ground and pounding the marble floor with my feet and fists.

The next thing I knew I was in my room with Mom, pawing through my toys, looking for something that didn't look used. But everything looked well used. Destroyed, for the most part. It was hopeless. And didn't my mom know that all new toys came in specially designed boxes?

“What about a box, too? We can't bring a present in any old cardboard box. It has to be inside the original package.”

“Oh, I hadn't thought of that,” said Marie Antoinette. “But you just gave me a good idea,” she added.

There would be no way out of this labyrinth of shame, I realized.

“What about one of your board games? They all stay in the original boxes, and they don't get that much wear and tear. Let's look through all of them.”

So I climbed up on my bed and reached for the top of my wardrobe, where my board games were all neatly stacked up, dust-free. The maid dusted up there every day.

We inspected each game carefully. Monopoly? No way! Even a blind man could have told it wasn't new. Chess? Nice wooden pieces, but too banged up. Checkers? Not too badly scarred, but even my mom had to admit that you couldn't give the richest boy in Cuba a game of checkers for his birthday. Parcheesi? No good either. Banged up and way too low-class. Chinese Checkers? Even worse than plain old checkers and Parcheesi combined.

It was at the bottom of the pile that my mom found what she was looking for: a board game that hadn't been used very much. The corners on the box were slightly scuffed, and the instructions looked a little rumpled, but everything else looked almost new. I would like to emphasize the word
almost
. I knew then that the game looked used, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but she convinced me with that voice of hers that it was really all right. Everything would be fine. Everything she touched was always fine. And that voice of hers could convince me to do just about anything.

“Oy vey!”
That's what the Jewish family that took me in four years later in Miami would have said. Or maybe
“Oy gevalt!”

Louis XVI said nothing about the gift. He never got involved in birthday party details. So I went to Sugar Boy's party, tainted. When we finally got there, after driving way beyond any suburb I had ever seen, even Biltmore, we came to a huge gate flanked by tall royal palms. We drove through the gates and entered an earthly paradise.

Sugar Boy's estate had everything the world had to offer, and more. A colossal swimming pool. Tennis courts. A stable full of horses. An enormous garage full of luxury cars. A golf course. The house, if one dared insult it by using such a humble word, was no house, really. It was a palace. Not quite Versailles, Aranjuez, or Neuschwanstein, but definitely a palace worthy of the Loire Valley. A tropical Chambord. With palms and tropical foliage, of course.

The road that led to the palace from the gates was long and winding. The lawns were lush and green, and immaculately mowed. An emerald sea it was, with multihued accents everywhere. Crotons of all kinds. Giant philodendrons. Caladiums. Flowers. Palms in all shapes and sizes. Especially royal palms, so tall, so regal. So Cuban. Palms that pierce my heart and entrails to this very day.

Other cars streamed in with us, a caravan of guests bearing gifts.

And there he was, in the circular driveway that skirted the palatial garage, Sugar Boy, driving a miniature sports car. Not a homely go-cart, but a perfect miniature replica of a real Ferrari or Porsche or something like that. He was taking curves, honking his little horn, impressing the hell out of everybody. He didn't wave at me when I got out of the car. He didn't even acknowledge my presence.

All the other kids gathered around Sugar Boy and his car when he came to a stop, like ants around a sugar cube or some discarded jawbreaker.

“Look at that car! Look,
Mami,
look,
Papi
!”

“Yes, it's very nice,” said Louis XVI, probably pining for those days at Versailles.

“Can I have one? Please? For Christmas? For my birthday?”

“Sorry, I think that's too expensive for us,” answered the King of France.

I knew he would say that, but I had to ask anyway. Imagine having your very own car! I almost had the nerve to ask my dad to sell foul-mouthed Maria Theresa. But I bit my tongue. I knew better. He wouldn't exchange her to ransom me from
El Colorado
if he had to. Or from Fidel, as it turned out.

My mom seemed more impressed than my dad by this estate, probably because she had no memories of Versailles, the Louvre, and Chambord.

Tony was not with us. He hadn't been invited. He had stayed at home with my father's sister and Ernesto. But I didn't feel too sorry for him. He got to go to Batista's son's party every single year, and I didn't. One of the older Batista kids was his classmate.

After dropping off Marie Antoinette and his non-Bourbon son, Louis XVI departed. “See you at nine,” he said, and home he went. I don't think he looked back once.

Unimpressed, he seemed. Nonchalant. Such a fine French word. It suited him.

So there we were, my mom and I, at Sugar Boy's party. I walked over to a small mountain of gifts and placed my stinking offering down at the bottom of the pile. How I hoped it would get crushed, that the pile would crumble on top of it. How I hoped he would never open it! That would be even better.

Then, as I turned to leave the gift pile, a woman handed me a huge box, beautifully wrapped.

“What's this?” I asked.

“These are your party favors,” answered the well-dressed lady.

“But the party is just getting started.”

“Yes, I know, but you'll need some of the favors during the party.”

Talk about surprises. This one topped them all.

I went back to Marie Antoinette, who was already busy talking to other mothers, and sat as close to her as possible. And I unwrapped that beautiful box with the red ribbon around it. The wrapping paper was silver: two shades of silver, in alternating stripes that traversed the box diagonally. I can still see the paper. To this day, stripes remind me of wealth.

It was the Box of Infinite Humiliation, the Box of Infinite Remorse.

Inside I found a gun-and-holster set. A beautiful cap pistol and many, many rounds of ammunition. A leather belt, finely tooled in Western motifs, with a leather holster to match. Black. With silver trim. A sheriff's badge—metal, like the pistol, not plastic. Several other items, the memory of which exists only in the deepest, darkest, most secure dungeon of repressed thoughts.

I think I started to shake. If I had been able to do it, I would have said “
qué mierda.”
I couldn't say that word then, due to my fear of hell, though I use it freely now, and often. This is what happens when you read too much Martin Luther.

“No, no, no!” That's what I said. “No, no, no, no, no.” It turned into a mantra. A nearly endless string of no's stretching to infinity.

One of the moms sitting nearby chimed in: “Strap it on, go ahead, join in with the other boys.”

All of a sudden I heard the
pops
. So many
pops,
coming from all directions. It was quite a shoot-out.

“Go on,
ándale,”
came the command from Marie Antoinette. So I joined in the shoot-out, until everyone's caps ran out.

Later that afternoon there was a scavenger hunt. I had never taken part in one before, so I had no clue how to proceed and I missed absolutely everything offered up in the hunt. It was immensely frustrating.

You see, the box of party favors was not enough for Sugar Boy's party. We had to roam all over the grounds of that wondrous estate looking for more toys, their location revealed only in cryptic messages. Great toys, mind you, not crap. It was largesse with an American twist: search for your treasure, wrinkle your brow, sweat for it.

I don't remember the cake and the presents. Those details are gone forever, buried in the vault of oblivion. I don't even remember what Sugar Boy looked like, or what expression he had on his face when he opened up my shameful present. Maybe he had the same expression for all of the presents, including mine. What could any of us have given him that he didn't already have ten times over?

The last thing I remember was the movie. As soon as darkness began to descend, we all gathered in an outdoor pavilion and were treated to a movie about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. All I remember is knights in armor and horses in armor, fighting in the mud, and my rising, choking envy.

What I remember much better than that movie was the sunlight that afternoon. Every blade of grass seemed alive with light, every leaf on every tree. The light on the bush by the tennis court. The light on the silver wrapping paper. The light on a scavenger hunt toy found by some other boy. Everything ablaze, as if glowing from within.

Nothing seemed the same afterwards. I had seen what life was like at the summit. For just one long afternoon, I had been part of that charmed life, suffocated and enthralled all at once. Gift giver from hell redeemed by gifts given to him. I was tagged. Now I needed to be swept away when the world changed.