Beautiful Maria of My Soul (4 page)

As long as he didn’t hit her, María could care less about what her
papito
said—she just figured he was drunk, and even if he’d insulted her
that made no difference to María, because, no matter what, his eyes were always contrite the next day—they told the truth about how he really felt. And, in any case, as his beloved daughter, the only daughter he had, she believed that he’d fall apart without her. Who else could he sing to in the evenings, out in front of their
bohío,
when his friends weren’t around? After a night’s restless sleep, who else could cheer him so in the mornings, her
papito
often declaring, at the sight of her: “When I look at you, María, I forget the misery of my days.” He’d smile, in the same way he once did during their slumbers by the stream behind their hut, or in his hammock (sometimes with Teresita joining them) when she was a little girl, her arms wrapped around him and their limbs all entangled, happily, happily, nothing in the world able to harm them and life itself, poor as they might have been, filled with so many simple pleasures.

…And when he smiled, the journeys they’d made when María was a girl of seven and eight would come back to her. These were daylong excursions to different pueblos in the province, some with barely a road leading to them, and even some big towns like Los Palacios or Esperanza, where he’d find a columned
plazuela
or shaded arcade in which to perform, Manolo singing and playing his guitar while his daughters, just little girls then, enchanted the passersby, danced to his music, and afterwards collected reales with their
papito
’s hat. Sometimes, with Manolo riding a horse and pulling along his young daughters in a cart, they’d even go as far north as the foothills of the Órgano mountains, to timber country, and while those trips, taking a day or more in each direction, were intended just as visits with some old musician friends of his, neither María nor her
papito
could ever forget their tranquil passages through some of the most wonderful tracts of forests and valleys in Cuba. No matter that the going was rugged and sometimes frightening, as when they’d have to sidle along a narrow dirt trail at the edge of a ravine, or it suddenly began to rain torrentially and rivers of mud and stone came sliding towards them from the higher ground, once they reached safety and had entered yet another forest, thick with orchids and air plants, whose luscious scents alone would put them in mind of being inside a dream—they may as well have en
tered a paradise. And not just of one’s childhood, for their
papito
himself, with his guitar slung over his back, crossing a meadow of wildflowers, had never seemed so happy as when he was on his horse and in the company of his daughters, his precious loved ones, who, in those days, he introduced to anyone he happened upon as his “little angels.”

This María remembered on her lonely evenings in Havana.

A
fter that night at the Catalán’s place, her body felt dirty for weeks, her thoughts filled with disgust for such establishments, the sorts of places María swore she’d never step inside again. But after a few more attempts to find work—she even went down to the harbor, where the only women to be found seemed to be either saloon girls or
putas
—she began to miss the feeling of having a few dollars in her pocket, no matter how she had earned them. Despising the Catalán while cherishing the prospect of money, María tried to find her nerve again, but she was too timid to knock on any club doors. Still, she had a bit of luck, if it could be called so: it came down to the kindness of a prostitute, living in the hotel, who knew a photographer with a shop on Obispo Street, the friend of a club owner, an entrepreneur typical of that city.

This is what happened: At a certain hour of the day, around four thirty, if you wandered into the Residencia Cubana, you’d find María, having grown close to
la señora
Matilda, seated by her side in the hallway, fanning herself and sipping from a bottle of Polar beer, while the landlady, half stewed and always with darning needle in hand, proceeded to regale the young
guajira
with tales of her own youth (born in Vigo, Spain, a transatlantic journey to Havana at the age of five, love, desperation, faith, and despair), ever so grateful that the poor bewildered beauty from the sticks didn’t mind providing company for such a Cuban relic as herself. In the background hummed the radio, and a calendar of Jesus holding his heart, at the center of the wall, soothed María’s soul, but in any event, the two, like turtles in the sun, didn’t really have to say much to each other to feel companionable.

After seven, however, as the shadows elongated in the streets, the prostitutes started to wander in with their fellows, earnest
cubanos
for the most part, trying to get in a leisurely romp before heading home, as well as some lower-end
turistas,
who couldn’t help but smile at the young beauty sitting by the old biddy. Of those prostitutes, the oldest and most regal, a certain Violeta, whose mouth seemed fixed in a perpetual scornful smile, had taken a liking to María—“If you ever want to come work beside me, let me know. Men would like you very much”—and on occasion, when she wasn’t breaking wind on the stairs, this Violeta—
“Ay, Teresita, she was a whore, but a sweet one”
—brought María (and
la señora
) a bag of greasy meat pastries from a cart on the street and sometimes a cup of fruit-syrup-drenched ice, succulent, chilling, and cleansing. On her way up, she always pinched María’s chin, as if she were an older sister, and sometimes, for the hell of it, she’d slap her bottom, whistling and, often enough, reminding her: “I’m telling you,
querida,
men would pay to have a taste of this.”

Then came another day when Violeta walked into the lobby with a thin gent, sad faced as José Martí, apostle of Cuba, that fellow, with one dormant eye—made of glass—pulling along a clattering black trunk on wheels, which, as it happened, carried the tools of his trade: a large box camera and various lights. Nearly falling over at the sight of María, who had been filing her nails in the stairwell shadows as they came in, he consulted with the prostitute.

His name was Enrique.

“My friend here,” said Violeta, “would like to take your photograph, María, to display in his shop window…. He’ll pay you a few dollars for your trouble, and who knows what other pictures he’ll want to make….”

Knowing the score, Violeta winked, as if it would be easy—every few months or so she herself posed for this fellow in her room upstairs, at a time of day when the windows flooded with light. Violeta sprawling naked on a bed, Violeta spreading wide her legs, her hairy bush and glinting Venus mound laid bare for the world to see, such shots to be sold as “artistic” photographs out of the back of his shop or by old lottery vendors
on the street. Violeta was already mildly famous among the brothel set for an accordion collection of such postcard-size photographs, circa 1933, which she had posed for as a ravishing fourteen-year-old girl, new to Havana and willing to do most anything for money. And so why wouldn’t María? The pay would be helpful, and she simply hadn’t had many photographs taken of her back in her
valle;
but there was also something about the photographer’s somewhat shattered, world-weary manner that immediately put María at ease. He seemed a harmless sort, one of those
habaneros,
as Violeta would say, who had fallen through the cracks of life but managed to survive anyway, without hurting a soul.

And so a few days later, María, having agreed to sit for the photographer in his studio, over at 17A Obispo, set out in the late morning, the ladies of the hotel, Violeta among them, having fussed over her. It was the first time she’d ever had her hair set in curlers, or worn makeup—not that she needed it—and though the face powders and lipstick seemed oddly confining, as she sauntered along those streets, the perfection of her features, along with the grandeur of her figure, stopped more than one
habanero
in his tracks: at the sight of her, grandly dressed Negroes, dapper in white from head to toe, bowed, smiled, and tipped their hats her way, as if, in fact, they felt blessed to see the most beautiful woman in Havana passing before their eyes.

At first as she sat before him, in her only good dress, María’s formal side took over. Not a
jamoncita
—a ham—at all, when he asked her to smile, she could barely manage. For his part, he didn’t really care but put on a show of fumbling about with his camera, making absurd faces, and, with every phrase, praising María’s natural gifts. He, with his one dead eye, allowed the other to swim in hers—dark as opals, almost feline, and mysteriously alluring. “My God,” he kept saying, “the more I look at you the more beautiful you become.” It took him a while, but, as he went about the tedious process of making shot after shot—he used plates—all the while telling her the story of his life—no wife, no family, and never as much as a
novia
to care for him—his sad and tender manner touched her. No wonder Violeta trusted him. And suddenly she did too,
for after an hour or so, María, who’d always mourned the carcasses of dead birds in the countryside, felt that she wanted to make that poor soul happy; and then, finally relaxed, she smiled in a way that seemed beatific.

After a while she began to enjoy the whole business, and got to the point that she didn’t mind it when Enrique, thinking about a sale to a magazine, asked her to put on a bathing suit—he had racks of all kinds of dressing items in the back. Going behind a Chinese screen she squeezed herself into a blue one-piece and then posed, under the heat of those lights, stretched out like Goya’s
Maja
on a settee. No comment about her lusciousness would suffice, but it should be said that Enrique, long accustomed to photographing the women of Havana, in various modes of dress and undress, would have gladly dallied that whole afternoon, luxuriating in the viscous femininity that, in the heat of that room—and it was ridiculously hot—escaped like perfume from her skin.

That, however, was not the photograph he would choose to put in his window. That same afternoon, he posed her in a virginal white lace wedding dress, María clutching a bouquet of roses to her breast, and supposedly dreaming about love. That black-and-white image, of María, her dark eyes looking imploringly out at the world through a lacy veil, soon graced the second tier of the photographer’s window, and, wouldn’t you know it, as María would tell her daughter one day, men gathered before that display just to get a second and third look of her daily.

“There are women who think they are beautiful,” she once told her daughter, “and while they may be pleasant in some ways, real beauty doesn’t come along too often.” She’d laugh. “That real beauty was me, even if I didn’t know it, back then.”

With so many men stopping into the shop to inquire about the “pretty girl,” it wasn’t long before that face caught the attention of one Rudy Morales, the photographer’s friend, who happened to own a cabaret on
one of the side streets off the Prado, the Monte Carlo. It was Rudy who gave María her first dancing job, her audition held in the Lysol-scrubbed reception area of the hotel. Matilda turned up the radio, and to the music of el Trío Matamoros, María performed in the rumba style of her childhood, so fluid, so Congolese, so rapturously sensual—and sexual—her hips swaying so convincingly and her skin giving off a feminine scent so profound that, how to put it, Mr. Morales, the sort to wear dark glasses in the middle of the night, breaking into a sweat, decided to hire her on the spot. “I would have given you a job just because of the way you look,” he told María. “But I’m happy to see that you can actually dance, and beautifully.”

Within a few days she had joined a chorus of seven dancers, the stage shows dominated by the fabulous Rosalita Rivera (from whom María would borrow her stage surname), an affable third-tier star on her way down from a not too glorious height, with thighs and belly far too fleshly to be appearing in the spare costumes those shows required (she was, of course, the owner’s mistress, bedding him at his convenience in the small flat he kept upstairs). The club itself, like so many María would work in, was a dump, selling water booze to a clientele of mischievous-minded tourists and servicemen, out for a night of oblivion and tarty entertainment. Its amenities were not elegant—its toilet was a disgrace, and their dressing area, with its speckled mirrors and pungent odors, of leaking pipes and kitchen grease, saw as much traffic as a street corner, the house band’s musicians, waiters, and busboys drifting by their tables casually, as if, in fact, the ladies were wearing something more than just panties and brassieres, sometimes less. (“Get used to it,” Susannah, one of the nicer dancers, told her as María scrambled to cover up her breasts when one of the musicians, a fellow named Rodrigo, happened by and, getting an eyeful of her nicely taut nipples, winked.)

She did not enjoy the cockroaches that sometimes crawled across the mirror, or the rats that skittered in through the stage door and in the early hours of the morning delighted in eating the cotton balls and
pomades that the dancers left out, and it was disgusting to find their droppings inside their shoes and makeup kits. (It struck her as a gloomy and claustrophobic way to live: To be indoors at night, separated from nature by walls and passageways and doors, left María missing the countryside and the woods—the very air that seemed as delicious as anything in the world.) And it didn’t make her happy to learn that she had to pay for her own costumes, for every flimsy sequined top with its gossamer meshing, for those bottoms that were two sizes too small and exposed her goose-pimpled
nalgitas
to the air-conditioned, smoke-filled chill; for the high heels that lifted her stately rump higher and left her feet sore for weeks, her toes growing horns and her soles covering over with scales like a lizard’s. (Thank God that
la señora
Matilda, having become her friend, allowed María to soak in her bathtub with Epsom salts; that pleasure was a pure luxury, and the kind that she never knew back in Pinar del Río.)

The other dancers, who were all about María’s age—Rosalita, at thirty, was practically an ancient by cabaret standards—were nice enough, happy to show María the ropes, but their choreographer, Gaspar, was of a different order altogether. A little fellow, he was one of those
fulanos
who, working so closely with women, seemed to have acquired some of their coquettish mannerisms; at the same time he liked to lord over them like a tyrant. With his tiny frame, muscular arms, and dyed blond hair, wavy as the sea, he was either constantly clapping his hands, to speed up their pace (flamenco-inspired numbers were the worst) or else putting on a show by tapping at the ladies’ heads with his dense forefinger if they made any mistakes. He worked on their postures, constantly lifting chins higher with his knuckles, and, while holding their bellies flat with one hand, ran the other up from the nubs of their spines to the bottoms of their necks; along the way, he held, brushed, pressed, and touched parts of their bodies with the kind of casualness that they would have objected to were he a more manly, and therefore lascivious, sort. (If he was acting, by pretending to show no interest in them, then he was a good actor.) Sometimes he’d fire
someone on the spot for flubbing her steps, send her out into the street in tears, run after her, then bring her back, without as much as an apology about the matter.

He didn’t mince words. “You are the worst dancer I’ve ever worked with—a disaster of the first order. You should go back to the sticks,” he once told María, who would have slapped his face had she not needed the job. “You put my stomach in knots,
entiendes?
Now, do it over again!”

Not that María disliked him—he was the first to let you know if your work was good, but, God, just getting to that point amounted to a daily trial. For one thing, she learned that there was quite a difference between the limberness of an amateur and that of a professional: the stretches alone were a misery that she never quite got used to. Constantly scolding them about one thing or the other, Gaspar would tell the chorus that they were useless unless, in the midst of a dance, they could raise their insteps to touch their foreheads, because then, as he’d bluntly put it, the gawking tourists might have their dreams come true and catch a glimpse of their young and succulent Cuban vaginas through the glittering fabric of their garments. Such a display of feminine charms, he reminded them again and again, was the backbone of their business. “Now, never forget that,
señoritas
!”

So for several afternoons a week, María became a reluctant ballerina in training, her long legs rising slowly and her body contorting as she tried to touch her forehead with the high arch of her shapely foot. All that work, which she hated at the time, she’d remember with fondness—given the distance of years, even the moody Gaspar would seem a most
simpático
teacher—and while it may have been true that María, a sight to see in a skimpy bodice and leotard, could have wrung a chicken’s neck and still drawn applause from the audience, a certain fact remained. During her seven months’ apprenticeship at the Monte Carlo, she, in fact, proved herself an exceptional dancer and probably could have been the star of that show, except for the fact that, as such things went—
It is very true, Teresita, that men will take advantage when you are
so very attractive
—she didn’t want to put Rosalita out on the street, the boss having gotten in the habit of removing his dark glasses and looking at María in a way that disturbed her during those shows. Or, to put it differently, she couldn’t see herself spreading her legs for him just for the sake of becoming a headliner, and so, feeling his eyes drilling into her backside each time she crossed the stage, María simply stopped showing up, even if she would miss those dancers, some of whom were to remain her friends.