Read Online Dreaming in Cuban by Cristina Garcia - Free Book Online
Authors: Cristina Garcia
Ads: Link
himself. No one else would.
I leave tomorrow. Jorge tells me we’ll live by the sea. I must pack. My clothes smell of mud.
Celia
November 11, 1938
Mi
Gustavo,
I’ve named my new baby Felicia. Jorge says I’m dooming her. She’s beautiful and fat with green eyes that fix on me disarmingly. I’ll be a good mother this time. Felicia loves the sea. Her skin is translucent, much like the fish that feed along the reefs. I read her poetry on the porch swing.
Lourdes is two and a half years old. She walks to the beach on her skinny brown legs. Strangers buy her ice cream and she tells them that I’m dead. Jorge calls her every night when he travels. “When are you coming home, Papi? When are you coming home?” she asks him. On the day he returns, even if he’s not expected until midnight, she wears her frilly party dress and waits for him by the front door.
Love,
Celia
February 11, 1939
Mi querido
Gustavo,
I get up while it’s still dark to see the fishermen push their boats into the sea. I think of everyone who might be awake with me—insomniacs, thieves, anarchists, women with children who drowned in their baths. They’re my companions. I watch the sun rise, burning its collection of memories, and I draw strength for another day. At dusk I grieve, thinking the earth is dying. I sleep a little.
Yours always,
Celia
July 11, 1940
Querido
Gustavo,
Last week, Jorge took us on a Sunday drive through Pinar del Rio province. The sight of mountains left me breathless. My vision is so accustomed to a shifting horizon, to the metamorphoses of ocean and clouds, that to see such a mass of rock, immovable against the sky, was astonishing. Nature had seemed more flexible. We drove past fields of sugarcane, rice, pineapples, and tobacco. Acres of coffee trees stretched in all directions.
We stopped in the capital for lunch. It reminds me of Havana when I was a girl. Hibiscus grew everywhere, as if painted by legions of artists. The pace was slow and there were rambling houses with columned verandas. I thought of Tía Alicia, her hair braided like mine with a blue ribbon, sitting at the piano playing Schumann’s
Kinderszenen
, her peacock brooch at her throat.
There were always children in the house who took lessons for a few months or a year or two, and shifted uneasily on the piano bench. They relaxed in her presence, brought her crayon drawings or flowers they had picked from their mothers’ gardens. Tía Alicia would take the canaries from their cage and let the children feed them seeds or grains of rice they’d saved from their lunch.
I remember Tía Alicia’s coconut cakes, the layers inflated with air. Her hands were always scented with the violet water she combed into my hair. She took me for long walks through the city’s parks and along its boulevards, revealing intriguing histories. She’s the most romantic person I’ve ever known.
Lourdes and Felicia were quiet most of the day, staring out the window. Felicia usually follows Lourdes around, imitating her sister until Lourdes gets exasperated. But today the two of them hardly said a word, I don’t know why.Jorge coaxed me to try a
guayabita del pinar
, a local drink, and I surprised myself by finishing four. The girls shared a plate of pork chops.
Much love,
Celia
September 11, 1940
Querido
Gustavo,
I’m sorry I didn’t write to you last month but Jorge was in a terrible accident and I had to rush to Holguín with the girls. He crashed his car into a milk truck and broke both arms, his right leg, and four ribs. He was in the hospital for over a month and has splinters of glass in his spine that the doctors can’t remove. Jorge is home now and moves around on crutches but he won’t be able to go back to work for a while. Lourdes refuses to leave his side. I’ve set up a child’s cot for her next to his bed. Felicia cries and wants to play with them but they ignore her.
Jorge is a good man, Gustavo. It surprised me how
I leave tomorrow. Jorge tells me we’ll live by the sea. I must pack. My clothes smell of mud.
Celia
November 11, 1938
Mi
Gustavo,
I’ve named my new baby Felicia. Jorge says I’m dooming her. She’s beautiful and fat with green eyes that fix on me disarmingly. I’ll be a good mother this time. Felicia loves the sea. Her skin is translucent, much like the fish that feed along the reefs. I read her poetry on the porch swing.
Lourdes is two and a half years old. She walks to the beach on her skinny brown legs. Strangers buy her ice cream and she tells them that I’m dead. Jorge calls her every night when he travels. “When are you coming home, Papi? When are you coming home?” she asks him. On the day he returns, even if he’s not expected until midnight, she wears her frilly party dress and waits for him by the front door.
Love,
Celia
February 11, 1939
Mi querido
Gustavo,
I get up while it’s still dark to see the fishermen push their boats into the sea. I think of everyone who might be awake with me—insomniacs, thieves, anarchists, women with children who drowned in their baths. They’re my companions. I watch the sun rise, burning its collection of memories, and I draw strength for another day. At dusk I grieve, thinking the earth is dying. I sleep a little.
Yours always,
Celia
July 11, 1940
Querido
Gustavo,
Last week, Jorge took us on a Sunday drive through Pinar del Rio province. The sight of mountains left me breathless. My vision is so accustomed to a shifting horizon, to the metamorphoses of ocean and clouds, that to see such a mass of rock, immovable against the sky, was astonishing. Nature had seemed more flexible. We drove past fields of sugarcane, rice, pineapples, and tobacco. Acres of coffee trees stretched in all directions.
We stopped in the capital for lunch. It reminds me of Havana when I was a girl. Hibiscus grew everywhere, as if painted by legions of artists. The pace was slow and there were rambling houses with columned verandas. I thought of Tía Alicia, her hair braided like mine with a blue ribbon, sitting at the piano playing Schumann’s
Kinderszenen
, her peacock brooch at her throat.
There were always children in the house who took lessons for a few months or a year or two, and shifted uneasily on the piano bench. They relaxed in her presence, brought her crayon drawings or flowers they had picked from their mothers’ gardens. Tía Alicia would take the canaries from their cage and let the children feed them seeds or grains of rice they’d saved from their lunch.
I remember Tía Alicia’s coconut cakes, the layers inflated with air. Her hands were always scented with the violet water she combed into my hair. She took me for long walks through the city’s parks and along its boulevards, revealing intriguing histories. She’s the most romantic person I’ve ever known.
Lourdes and Felicia were quiet most of the day, staring out the window. Felicia usually follows Lourdes around, imitating her sister until Lourdes gets exasperated. But today the two of them hardly said a word, I don’t know why.Jorge coaxed me to try a
guayabita del pinar
, a local drink, and I surprised myself by finishing four. The girls shared a plate of pork chops.
Much love,
Celia
September 11, 1940
Querido
Gustavo,
I’m sorry I didn’t write to you last month but Jorge was in a terrible accident and I had to rush to Holguín with the girls. He crashed his car into a milk truck and broke both arms, his right leg, and four ribs. He was in the hospital for over a month and has splinters of glass in his spine that the doctors can’t remove. Jorge is home now and moves around on crutches but he won’t be able to go back to work for a while. Lourdes refuses to leave his side. I’ve set up a child’s cot for her next to his bed. Felicia cries and wants to play with them but they ignore her.
Jorge is a good man, Gustavo. It surprised me how
Similar Books
