"In Cuba"

“In Cuba”   [originally appeared in Chicago Review issue 56: 2/3 - Autumn 2011]

He went back to a bed

Even more terrible than the loyal eyes

Of a dog about to be euthanized. –Frederick Seidel

My wife has died in the hotel. Her body was unable to support the massive thread count. The men came in, investigated and went out. She was always particular about thread counts. She took it up with the concierge. Meanwhile, I would study the shape of all the poor people’s skulls. All I can remember now is the fact that she died. We went to Cuba, to the hotel, where I am now. After the men came in, I asked, Why was I not killed? The men walked out. I went to the veranda, where I watched a bevy of odd sparrows alight. The sparrows were stone-washed denim, perfectly matching the sky. The city shone in the hazy light. The air smelled of the water supply, and the land and the hills. The maid came in. I did not know what she would do with my deceased wife. Was she sleeping? she asked. I did not say a word. I was smoking. I did not know whether my cigar was authentic. I did not want to know if it was authentic. Once, upon arriving home from a trip, just as this, I met a customs officer. She said the word cigars, then asked about Cuban cigars, she inquired about them with considerable emphasis—I felt I was being accused of something. Of course, I replied, as a good Catholic. In my carry-on you will find many Ziplocs filled with authentic hand-rolled Cuban cigars. I had hoped to use them in the future as gifts to family and friends. The woman then ordered me to unpack the bags of cigars and hand them over to her, for inspection. But I was forced to watch as she destroyed them with a pair of shears. I was regretful now that I had told the truth to this woman. Never again would I. So now, whenever I go out to buy cigars, I request the finest Dominicans. The clerk will respond, not with a little disdain, that he has never carried those. I am in Cuba, what could I want with those? They are not as good as Cubans. Are you crazy? Then I tell him, Remove the bands. And he says nothing, he knows that I am serious. When I go home, I will have nothing illegal to declare. Except my deceased wife. Perhaps if asked whether I have anything to declare I will say, Does it mean anything to you, miss, that my teenage wife has just been killed on this journey, meanwhile you are here asking about cigars, and my wife has just died? The customs lady will be shaken to the extent that she will ask no further questions concerning Cuban cigars, which I have carefully packed into twelve Ziploc bags. And now I study, cigar in hand, these huge advertisements for denim neckties, pendent from the Capitol building. I note the regality with which they swing, and how they match the color of the sky. I count the seconds I have left to think.

***

My wife, they say, has died, owing to a thread count. Death was instantaneous. This was to be our second honeymoon. Outside, the monument protrudes into the sky. An advertisement swings. “Denim neckties,” I read. The men walk away. The ecstasy of travel is truly amazing. The maid knocks at the door. She reads from a piece of scented paper. Banana leaf. She concentrates deeply and pays no attention. She spends a great deal of time examining the bed in which my wife is lying. Out on the balcony, I smoke a cigarette. Meanwhile, the team of lawyers I ordered arrives, and out of embarrassment I look away. The maid has left, my wife taken. I stroll through the city, annoyance swamping my judgment. You must understand, though, my wife was never civil, and this morning’s stunt was not any different. I run back worried that I have not turned off the water in the bidet. Beside myself, I return to find out the bidet is in fact in good working order. Tears of gratitude run down my cheeks. I walk the streets, beside myself with anger. Strolling aimlessly, annoyed at myself, and at the beauty of this droll place, I find myself marveling at an epileptic loitering by a pay phone. And behind her, etched upon an enormous concrete surface, no windows, a faint mural, perhaps painted long ago by some unknown artist. Its subject is a dark-skinned human ear, inside of which I notice, coiled prettily, a Siamese cat, color gray. Obliged, I deposit a small donation and leave… I reach the movie theater. Today’s feature: Laika, The Pretty Pup. I am jostled by the tallest of thirteen bouncers. Inside is dancing, earnest conversation, belligerent birds of paradise threatening to burst out of their cages—and champagne is served. Platters of white raisins and smoked duck are carried out by legions of listless caterers. Goat meat and scrambled eggs, punch galore. I see a familiar face, but whose? I know it is someone, some personage. Oh yes! It is Fidel! He’s come for the premier. And they announce now with whistles and terrible glissandi the arrival of the feature. We take our seats. A tallish man with small head, scant eyebrows and regal nose extends his woolen glove. I read my instructions. They say “Don the 3-D monocle.” The girl next to me cannot find hers. She scrambles about the floor trying to find it. I am unable to determine if I should offer her mine. But after some extensive thought, I decide to do nothing, considering it best not to mortify her. The movie has subtitles, but I cannot read them, as the translation is very poor. In one image, a reputedly magic stone, newly arrived in Tokyo, tells us: “Laika, the foundling pup, after at length becoming literate and proficient in the Beaux-Arts is suddenly elected to go into space.”  The honor is great, and it is clear that Laika herself is all too aware of this enormous task before her. And every now and then we see the flashing still. It is Laika, her chest proudly bloated, eyes unwavering in a fixed gaze. The young girl digs her nails into my knee. The shuttle launches. We all know Laika is not to make it back. I kiss the eyelids of the girl and she sits frigidly. Meanwhile the pup flies into the sky as the credits stream down. The monocle drops to her lap. I feel my hand becoming uneasy. I must bite her cheek. It’s the kind of film that motivates one to do better, that touches upon an ineffable human truth. Enamored of this valiant mutt, Fidel stands—we all do.

***