Tomorrow They Will Kiss (10 page)

“Die now, you old witch. You will not ruin my plans. I will marry Francisco, and none of you will ever set foot in this mansion
again.”

After a really good episode, I couldn’t wait to get into the van and talk about it with the others. Week after week, the telenovelas
gave us new topics to discuss. They had titles that stayed with me forever:
Dear Enemy,
which was about twin sisters; or
The Privilege to Love,
about a half- caste slave. My favorite will always be
Cadenas de Amargura
—Chains of Bitterness—about an evil spinster with a dark secret.

It wasn’t always fun and giggles in the van. Some nights, it filled up with the kind of sadness only a group of very unhappy
women can generate. None of us ever dreamed we’d come to Union City to work in a toy factory, or any other kind of factory
for that matter. After a long day of plugging tiny plastic arms into tiny plastic sockets, we were often too tired to talk,
lost in our own thoughts, our own worries. Like on the day when Berta first fell down. One minute she was standing at the
line, the next she was on the floor. I was the one closest to her, so I bent down to help her up. But she was out cold. I
could hear the others shouting, “Emergency!” And then Mr. O’Reilly was there. Together we helped her up and practically carried
her to his office. He guided us to his desk chair, which had wheels on it. We tried to get Berta into it, but the chair kept
rolling away. By the time we got her in it she was already coming to.

Mr. O’Reilly was very nice to her. He even got a paper cup of water for her to drink.

“Estás buena?” he kept asking her in his bad Spanish. What he was asking her over and over was “Are you sexually aroused?”
I didn’t have the heart to correct his Spanish. And if I hadn’t been so worried about Berta I would have found it falling-
down funny.

That night, on the way home, I looked from face to miserable face: Berta, Raquel, Leticia, Imperio, and Caridad. I wanted
to hear their true thoughts the way I could in the telenovelas.

The van traveled carefully along the now familiar streets. We had nothing better to do than to look out at the squares of
green lawns in summer, or white in winter, and at rows of little houses separated by rusting chain- link fences, the air-
conditioning units sticking out of windows like leaking tumors. Just when I thought the van would explode from the unrelenting
misery it was transporting, Leticia said the magic words.

“Niiiiñas, I’m sure of it! Esta noche se besan. Tonight they will kiss.”

“Not tonight,” Berta said, in a voice that belonged to a sleepwalker. “Tomorrow.”

“Berta’s right,” I said. “Tonight the old lady dies, and tomorrow they will kiss.”

“You will not ruin my plans,” Imperio said, imitating the blonde to perfection. “I will marry my Francisco and none of you
will set foot in this big mansion again.”

“Imagínate,” Caridad said.

After that, we couldn’t stop laughing. And every time we did, Imperio repeated the line and got us going again, until one
by one we were dropped off.

My relationship with the ladies in the van was a strange one. They weren’t exactly my friends, and I wouldn’t trust them,
particularly Imperio and Caridad, to take a dog out for a pee. But in a world full of foreigners, all we had was each other.

Imperio had been a classmate from the first grade. Caridad had attended that same school, but back then we never talked. Caridad
was like a little pampered Pekingese. Her mother brought her to school every morning in little starched dresses and perfect
patent- leather shoes, and dashed her home as soon as the first bell rang. Off she went to ballet or piano lessons.

I met her when I was fourteen or so, through Imperio, and the three of us became friends, sort of. There was always something
about Caridad that kept me at arm’s length. She was warm, kind, and well mannered, but it was as if she’d gone to the Catalog
of Decency and chosen how she wanted to represent herself. Even as a young girl she was like a crowned nun, very pious and
serene, until you noticed how she carried her head. It was somewhat easier to be friends with Imperio, as irritating as she
could be, and in spite of that horrible man she married. At least you always knew what you were getting.

After they both left Palmagria for this enormous country, I thought I would never see either one of them again. And that would
have been just fine with me. But life had other plans.

I
magínate!

It all started when poor Berta fell. One moment she’s standing across from me working, and the next she’s sprawled out on
the concrete floor of the factory. She fell slowly, as if she was trying to lie down on a bed and someone had pushed the bed
away. I was so embarrassed. If poor Berta wasn’t feeling well, why didn’t she just excuse herself? Naturally Graciela, who
was working next to Berta, went into hysterics.

“Berta! Berta!” she screamed in that overly dramatic manner that makes me shudder. I could feel the Americans watching us.

Graciela was kneeling over her, and the conveyor belt was still going. Berta’s and Graciela’s pieces were still coming.

“Emergencia!” Leticia shouted. But no one came to slow down the belt, doll parts were piling up. So the rest of us had to
move faster to pick up the slack, not just for Berta but for Graciela as well.

A few moments later, Mr. O’Reilly came running out of his office, and between him and Graciela they half carried, half walked
Berta to his office. He didn’t slow down the belt.

The doll parts were coming fast. Imperio just started picking them up and setting them aside.

“They can deal with these when they return,” Imperio said. “Maybe Leticia considers this an emergency, but I think of it as
an unscheduled coffee break.”

I was working so fast I barely heard what Imperio was saying, but not so fast that I didn’t see what was going on, because
from where I stood I could see into Mr. O’Reilly’s office, which was almost all glass. I saw it all as clearly as if I’d been
using binoculars.

He pulled out his desk chair and they got Berta into it. Poor Berta’s face was pale and slack, her tongue was practically
hanging out. Mr. O’Reilly was kneeling in front of her, fanning her with a paperback book and saying something.

Graciela was standing between the two of them but then leaned forward so that her breasts were practically in his face.

I could see Berta’s mouth moving, so she was saying something, which meant she was all right. I sighed with relief and tried
to set my sights back to my work. But then I saw Mr. O’Reilly get up and walk to the water fountain. He returned with not
one but two paper cups of water.

Berta sipped at her water and started to sit up. Graciela accepted her cup of water and held it, her eyes locked with Mr.
O’Reilly’s like she was at a cocktail party. She took a sip and smiled, and I think they forgot poor Berta was even in the
room.

I’m not one to judge, but it seemed to me that after that little incident, Mr. O’Reilly came around much more often. Instead
of just walking by and saying, “Buenos días,” he now stopped for a moment and stood right between Berta and Graciela. And
she just continued working as if she wasn’t aware that he was standing there. But that’s her strategy. Graciela has always
played a good game.

Even during those awful days back in Palmagria when the rumor had almost become a shout, her hand was warm, her grip was firm,
and her brushstrokes were as precise as ever. I sat across from her, my hand in hers, and searched her eyes while she lacquered
my nails, but her eyes gave away nothing. If she’d heard what people were saying, she never let on. I remember that Ernesto
came home while we were all still there and she offered him her cheek to be kissed, as if nothing out of the ordinary was
happening.

Imagínate! Ernesto
must
have been aware of the stories circulating behind his back about Graciela and Pepe Medina Ynclán. It’s not as if Palmagria
was a town known for its restraint. Imperio and I decided that because Ernesto was not a man given to hysteria, he thought
he could just wait it out. And then, in his own time, he would quietly dissolve his marriage without scandal. Like a teaspoon
of sugar in a glass of warm water, it would simply vanish and leave only clarity and sweetness behind.

But Imperio’s husband, Mario, who, sadly, often found courage in alcohol, finally told him what no one dared to say. He did
it to his face and in front of everyone.

It happened while Ernesto was playing dominos outside the grocery store. He had been playing the same game with the same five
men every Sunday for fifteen years. Mario walked by and saw Ernesto calmly involved in a game while the town talked about
Graciela and seethed with shame for him. He stood watching for a moment, swaying from side to side, then stepped up and poked
a finger into Ernesto’s chest.

“Ernesto,” he said in that overfamiliar way Mario took on when he’d been drinking. “Do something about the situation, before
the rest of the women in this town start to think they can do the same as your wife and get away with it.”

The other men, who loved Ernesto like a brother, just looked down at their domino tiles. No one jumped up to defend him. No
one told Mario to get lost. In fact they seemed grateful that Mario, in his drunken stupor, had done the dirty job that everyone
at that table was dreading. They had all wanted to say something to him, but how do you express something like that to the
most educated and honored man in town without tearing his heart out? Even Dr. Celedonio, who had been Ernesto’s friend since
they were boys and had delivered both his children, did not lift a finger or even raise his voice to defend him.

Mario moved on down the dark and empty sidewalk, weaving and stumbling his way home, and Ernesto was left with the image of
his wet lips spitting out words like bullets.

The next morning, as soon as I heard what had happened, I ran to Imperio’s house. Mario hardly remembered the incident at
all. But just the same, Imperio had decided to send him away for a while, to a cousin’s in Pilón. She frantically packed a
bag for him while he showered.

“Por Dios,” she said. “He felt terrible about the whole thing once I told him what he’d done. He wanted to go and apologize
to Ernesto. But I told him he’d already done enough.”

“Ernesto must have felt so alone last night,” I said. My heart ached for him.

The rumor of the encounter between Ernesto and Mario grew louder and went farther, faster and faster, until it was on everybody’s
lips. The town was abuzz with gossip. It was all they could talk about. I could hear it as I walked down the street, whether
I wanted to or not.

“Pepe neither confirms nor denies it,” someone said.

“Pepe’s become too important to be pushed around,” from another.

“Rumors become fact if no one contradicts them,” it continued.

“If no one steps up and offers a different story it must be true.”

“The whole thing stinks of weakness and no cojones.”

“It sets a bad example.”

“I told my Nena, if I ever catch her, she’s as good as dead. And she’s taking the kids with her.”

“If it were me, I’d cut her chocha.”

Sadly people started to look at Ernesto with anger. For the whole of the next day, Graciela was nowhere to be seen. Her house
became like a tourist attraction. People walked past it to gawk, even if it took them blocks out of their way. But neither
she nor her children were seen. The doors and windows remained closed. Imperio and I stood across the street, unsure of what
to do.

“What if something terrible has happened in there?” I said.

“Well,” Imperio said, her eyes on the closed windows, “it would not be the first time that an unfaithful wife in Palmagria
found herself at the pointy end of a kitchen knife. Por Dios, before the Revolution, any other man in this town would have
handled this situation with a swift and simple action. He would have confronted the man who brought shame on the mother of
his children and shot him dead.”

“Ruining many lives in the process,” I said. “Most of all his own.”

“El honor es el honor,” Imperio said. “What do we have if we don’t have our honor?”

As we walked away, I thought that any other man would also have hunted Mario down and cut his throat for speaking in front
of others what was, in all honesty, none of his business. I was sure Imperio had had the same thought, so there was no need
to mention it. I felt just awful for Imperio.

Fortunately Ernesto was not the type to take someone’s life with his own hands. And after the Revolution he had another choice.

The day after his much discussed encounter with Mario, Ernesto went to the courthouse and filled out countless complicated
legal forms requesting an exit visa to the United States.

“Only to discover,” Silvia, a clerk at the courthouse told us, “that a married man is under no circumstances allowed to leave
the country without his children.”

That was news to me. There was still so much we didn’t know. The constitution was being rewritten daily. Something that was
legal one day was illegal the next. And sometimes certain things would become legal again all of a sudden, and so on. But
what Silvia said was true and would remain so.

“The Revolution is not about to take on a traitor’s unwanted family,” Silvia explained to me patiently, as if this made perfect
sense to her and should to all others.

*

A
FTER A TIME ALL FLIGHTS
from Cuba to the United States were canceled and people became frantic to reach the United States any way they could, through
Mexico, Panama, Venezuela, even Spain. They were like rats jumping off a sinking ship. In Palmagria, for those who dared to
fill out an application to emigrate, there were very specific steps to follow, which was good in a country where everything
had been turned upside down. It was also very public.

The first thing a family had to do was request an exit visa. That included complicated paperwork that needed to be overseen
by a lawyer or at least a notary public. This would be followed by a thorough inventory of all their possessions.