Cuba Blue (18 page)

Not long after, he learned how to develop his own pictures. Tomaso loved to watch the fluid black images magically coalesce onto the white paper, freezing each into permanence. Tongs forgotten in his excitement, Tomaso’s fingers turned an unsightly yellow-brown from the developing solution—much to his parent’s dismay.

His reverie ended, Tomaso now set his camera aside, knelt, and began collecting the shards of clay pots that he’d earlier dropped. Tomaso tended his plants like a shepherd his sheep, his fingers now stained with dirt rather than photographic solution. He spoke to the plants, encouraging each.
Who else am I going to talk to
, he thought.
Like Qui, I am a loner, always have been, a cruel thing to be if one is also an idealist looking for justice in this world.
His thoughts wandered once again into his past as if reading his life history.
My birthday…dredging up old memories.
His hands continued to work the soil, while the breeze whispered through the branches.

He reached over to scratch Palo, his German shepherd; while the dog’s chin never left the pillow of his paws, Palo’s eyes followed Tomaso’s every movement, as if to ask why he worked so hard.

“In the old days, Palo, the more I looked through the camera lens, the more I saw only poverty and misery—as if the lens focused only negatives! Such poverty. So shocking to see how our people lived, not unlike here in Miramar.”

With a small groan, Palo rolled deeper in the shade, escaping the rising heat.

“When I was a boy, Palo, I never knew we were rich…never understood how hard my father worked to provide for us either. To me, he was just gone all the time.” Tomaso shrugged and frowned. “I only knew he went to work…a meaningless word to a child! Now Qui aha…she always knew what I did, and
how
I did it. My work was here and in the darkroom. Not in an office like my father.”

He arranged the moss in each of the baskets he intended to hang here in the courtyard. Palo yawned at his master’s activity.

“To succeed today, I knew my girl needed to understand how important work is to a person. The poor, now
they
understand the meaning and value of work, and yet they have nothing. God must love to see them suffer. Music and dance their only escape from poverty and pain and death. But what do I know? Only what my camera tells me, ’eh, Palo?”

As if in complaint, Palo arched his eyes and barked before returning to his nap.

No suffering goes on now in Cuba, none whatsoever, not according to
The Beard
. The old fool’s impoverished all of us, in Soul if not in pesos. So much for the promises of revolution.”

Tomaso straightened and stretched, his back aching, but he wanted these baskets planted and hanging by the time Qui crawled from bed. He’d heard her come in late the night before, but no sign of Montoya. He wondered if they were again feuding over her case.

He muttered aloud, “Tomaso, you need a break.”

“Tomaso, you need a break,” echoed the rich feminine voice of Marie Elena, his housekeeper. “Here, I’ve made you some lemonade, not too sweet, just the way you like it. Sit with me. Tell me half as much as you tell Palo.”

“Maria Elena, you spoil me!” he chided the young woman, pleased to see her smile. “If you must know my thoughts, I’m too old to be having birthdays.”

“You’re not so old!”

“My mirror tells me otherwise. I
am
old and nothing can change that.” He finally put aside his tools and walked to a shaded courtyard table where she’d placed glasses and iced lemonade. “So what’ve you and Palo been discussing?”

“All manner of things.”

“The state of the world, I suspect.”

“Well that, yes, and…and I’ve also been thinking what
all
old revolutionaries think.”

“And that is?” She poured a drink and handed it to him.

“Past glories and successes, of Old Cuba, of how Rafaela and I re-built this home, and how lovely are her flowers today. Just an old man’s thoughts, Maria.”

He lifted his glass and wryly smiled. “You have three lovely children who adore you, you have a comfortable home here, you enjoy life. Your only curse everyone knows. Has Santos been around again, asking for money?”

She quickly looked down to hide eyes filling with tears. “He begs forgiveness and promises what he always promises—to stop drinking—but he doesn’t mean it, he never does.”

“And your curse is that you still love him.”

“Yes, but I can’t live with him. Yet when he begs me to take him back….
Aiy dios mio
…he called again last night.”

Palo got to his feet and ambled off at the mention of Santo’s name. He’d always harbored a dislike for the man.

She continued and Tomaso held her gaze. “So, even though it is your birthday, and Qui will be with you, and I want it to be a happy time, my heart is not cooperating.”

He agreed, adding, “Santos is twisted inside from some pain that never healed. It shows in his eyes. He is greedy and doesn’t want to work.”

“I will tell you as I would tell my Qui if she were with such a man. You must end it…as long as you hang on, he can hurt you again and again.”

“Of course, now, I—I’d be lost without you here. How would I run the place? Who’d feed and keep the guests happy? As for love…you’ll see. Love will come again, I promise.” He pulled her hand up and kissed it, an oddly old world affectionate gesture. “Now go dry those pretty eyes, and let me finish before our guests arrive.”

He moved back into the sun and was immediately plunged into his memories.

Palo returned from his food dish to again lie at his feet as Tomaso resumed hanging plants. He liked the feel of the fine basket weave against his hands. His nose filled with the fresh odor of the flowers. Comforting Sunday morning rituals.

“Palo, my boy, is it fair that Maria works hard and Santos takes all she has?”

A military plane disturbed the peace, making him again look skyward. Palo’s ears alerted, and he looked for some change in the landscape—eyeing Tomaso’s old Mercedes as if someone might actually be interested in tampering with it. In fact, Yuri, a Russian émigré who’d stayed on in Cuba after the Soviets left—converted by Cuba’s beauty and the lifestyle—tinkered with the engine now. But for Palo, Yuri was like the rest of the landscape here, and so, finding nothing amiss in the familiar surroundings, the dog settled back.

“Arturo Benilo now, there was a fire-breathing revolutionary, Palo, like Che Guevara himself. The young shout the slogan—‘Be like Che!’ But they know nothing of the man. Now there was a true freedom fighter. Captured and executed while carrying on the revolution in Bolivia.”

Tomaso fell into silent thought as his hands worked. He had a plan: to line the entire courtyard with hanging plants.

“Benilo almost went to Bolivia with Guevara, you know. God, how Arturo ranted in those days. A flaming—what do they call ’em now—radical? Yes, but we were friends.”

Palo only snored now.

“Our shared ideas about freedom and justice ran wild like a rain-swollen river—so young we were. Each trip outside Havana taught us something new about Cuban life…and Cuban death.”

During the revolution, a Leica was in Tomaso’s hands, and from it, he learned how to take pictures of the land, of the women—all the glorious women—as well as the poverty and misery around them. Images that spoke to the heart and mind even today. Tomaso smiled at his pride in those old photos as much as the memory of his and Benilo’s youthful escapades. Full of the
black and white
thinking that characterizes teenage idealism, he and Benilo were such easy, innocent targets for recruitment into a revolution.

Having pretty much left his family, Benilo, always angry, decided to join the revolutionaries and began a campaign to convince Tomaso to join. By this time, Tomaso had become disenchanted with his own family, the proverbial black sheep for his anti-Batista talk. He joined Che Guevara and Fidel Castro’s movement as their special photojournalist. As a result, his mother had come to think of his photography as having become the family curse.

Tomaso again turned to Palo and said, “Smuggled to the foreign press, my photos made a big difference in the revolution. Made for me friends among the leaders—an uneasy relationship to this day.”

Sighing heavily, Tomaso shrugged and stood, gazing at the abundant blossoms of Mariposa, so beautiful to look at, so like his beloved Rafaela. She’d left so much of herself here in their Miramar home, not the least being Quiana.
She has your fierce persistence and goes her own way, untamable, such spirit, like your own.
You’d be proud of her. But this…three bodies… this situation… I am afraid for her.

He took as much care with Rafaela’s Mariposa garden as he did his cameras. “Pray for her, Rafaela, and watch out for her. Our daughter is in some terrible danger. I must find a way to persuade her to turn this ugly business over to someone else.”
 

Qui’s voice kept rising, “What does an old man who tends flowers and talks to the dead know of Cuba today? You forfeited a place in Cuba’s highest circles, and now you tell me what to do? Always with what is best and what is too dangerous! Papa, I am a police woman now, not a little girl.”

“Careful, daughter!” Tomaso gave only a moment’s thought to the governmental position offered him after the revolution, a position he’d walked away from.

He just looked at this now angry daughter of his, saying nothing, again reminded of how much like her mother she was: impetuous, headstrong, passionate, and stubborn. Tomaso chuckled aloud at the thought, shaking his head. “Ahh… stubborn child.”

“How dare you interfere in my professional life?” she persisted, pacing the courtyard where a trade wind swept through, bringing with it the clean scent of the sea.

He tried to keep pace. “Calm down. We can talk like adults.”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Oh, that’d be a pleasant change.”

“I’ve never under any circumstances wanted to belittle or insult you.” He paused, taking a breath. “Now, what is all this ranting about, because I have no idea what—”