Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
defective ones, for personal use or the chance to trade it away. Rafaelito told me, “This is the
puro puro
.”
Back at the house, half the neighborhood gathered to watch me huff on this thing, many, I
slowlyrealized,hopingtoseemevomit.Istoodoutsideonabackpatio,amidchickencoops.
The cigar went to my head like thunder. My knees became untrustworthy. But no throwing
up.Rafaelito hadtoomuchtodrinkanddancedlikeacrazyperson.Asaboy,helosthisonly
brother, drowned in the river. His father, Rafael, approached me with a wagging finger, ask-
ing me if I liked the country. Of course, I said,
bonita, linda y la gente
.
“Si.”
He looked a little bit like a Cuban Groucho Marx.
“Si, te gusta el país,”
he said.
“Pero, te gusta el sistema?”
Hepulledthesyllablesof
el sistema
outofhismouthlikedraws
of taffy.
Now they were all gone, all the Rafaels. The two older ones were dead from disease, and
theyoungestonehadgonetoMiami,Idon'tevenknowhow.Thereisakindoflottery,appar-
ently. Perhaps he won it. He's working as a mechanic. The house was completely different.
The ground floor was empty and quiet.
Haydee, the old woman of the house, was still there, even more ancient but seemingly un-
changed. I saw her do the same thing now to the six-year-old that she did to my wife those
years ago, wrap her arms around the girl and sort of refuse to leave, the way a child would.
“I'm keeping her here,” she said. “You, go back.”
Her husband and son were gone, her grandson gone to Miami. Her other grandson, Erik,
half brother of the boy who left, was still around. In fact, he was thriving. He had started a
little furniture business. He was living in the house with his wife and daughter, and all had
been going well. But just months before, they lost a son, an infant, to a respiratory disease.
Sowithinashortspanofyears,helosthisfather,grandfather,andhisbrother(toemigration),
and now his son. He was the only male in the house.
Erik'sdaughter,ayounggirlwithglassesandreddish-brownhair,wasasshyashergrand-
mother. She stayed on the edges of whatever room we were in. My daughter was at my feet,
peeking through my legs at her. I could feel their intense awareness of each other, but neither
would approach.
After lunch, while Erik was explaining different aspects of the furniture operation to me,
my six-year-old came up and started tugging on my shirt. She was mouthing something at
me.Ikeptsaying,“Pleasedon'tinterrupt,sweetheart.”Shesaid,“Givemeyourphone!”Iex-
cused myself from Erik for a second to give her a little lecture. I knew she was bored, I said,
but this was an important day, and she needed to use her manners, not play with the phone.
“Give me the phone!” she said, and ran off in a huff when I refused.
Barely 20minutes later we went back upstairs and passed bythe little girl'sroom. She and
the six-year-old were sitting on the bed, playing on a phone. It was my wife's. The six-year-
old had taught her cousin to play Angry Birds. They were smiling and leaning on each oth-
