Cienfuegos, Cuba. Circa 1954-55. Some say (including me!) it is a picture postcard town; about 85,000 to 110,000 souls. A small city (or a big town, depending on your perspective) owning and guarding a good size naturally enclosed bay on the south shore of Cuba. Right at the center of the island. The city was founded in 1775 by a military architect and an engineer by the last names of Cienfuegos and D’Clouet; hence the name and the fact that most streets and avenues are straight from end to end, and each block in the central area of town is exactly 100 meters from the middle of an intersection to the middle of the next intersection.
What does all of the above have to do with the price of milk, you ask? Nothing, I respond. Yet, if you know old towns anywhere, then you will know they are societal, tradition oriented and fairly closed to outsiders and/or people or things which are different. I know; on my mother’s side I am third generation since my grandfather came from Spain in 1914, while my mother’s great-grandmother had been a local girl. On my father’s side, I am about the 6th or 7th generation (and last) to be born there.
My family (mother’s side; I really did not get to know my father’s side until much later) was fairly well known in local society and owned a well to do business which was founded by my grandfather, and eventually run by his brother-in-law (my grandmother’s brother) while my grandfather became the president of the Chamber of Commerce and dedicated himself to promoting the town in international tourism circles.
Now, with all that being said, the stage is set to get back to the title of this little piece. I also though about calling it “Bah…Bah…Black Sheep” But that was already taken sometime ago… So, Skeletons in the Closet it is.
Back when I was 9 or 10 years old, I was the King of the House (well, king in waiting, if you prefer…) and, especially in the summer months, my routines were fairly set. In the mornings, I would go to the Club, where I was a member of the swim team. We had daily practices and exercises –dry and wet- for about 3 hours and then I would stick around for a while before going home, usually after having lunch at the club’s cafeteria. There was not much to do until later in the day, so my pastimes included running and skating down the length of the inner courtyard at the house (impressive, huh?) actually, a long patio. I would go to the last post of the patio which was by the kitchen door, hold on to it while swinging around and head back to the front of the patio, where this action was repeated… If I tried this today, I would probably have the concrete wall at the back of the patio for lunch! I would do this for a while, until I became tired or bored, or both. Then I would go listen to the radio for a while (TV would not hit us for a little while yet).
One summer afternoon in the year of 1954, I believe, I came back to the house as usual (I was usually alone at this time) and put my skates on in order to start skating (actually, it was part of an exercise routine to strengthen my leg muscles for swimming) and when I got to the kitchen door and went to grab the post, I saw a figure seating at the kitchen work table and, the best part: I had no idea who this person was.
Were this to happen here today, I would probably head for the front door and then to get the neighbors. Then, in my hometown, we could still leave the front door on the latch (how I used to get in) and the crime rate was truly low to non-existent. So, my reaction was not of total fear, just caution.
-“Who are you and what are you doing in my house” I said, with the confidence (quickly eroding) of a soon-to-be 9 year old…
He just looked at me and smiled. A very strange feeling came over me, as if I should know this person yet, I had never laid eyes on him before this moment. Then I noticed that there was a plate of food on the table; a simple plate of a skirt steak and green beans, in an onion sauce. Nothing else, except a beer. (Later as an adult, this would be considered a great lunch… back then, when I ate a lot, it looked skimpy).
-“Would you like to eat some of this?” he asked, offering me part of his lunch (I would later find out this was his one meal for the day) and I almost accepted it (did say I ate a lot then) before I realized I still did not know who this almost familiar stranger was.
-“But, who are you?” – “What is your name?” -“What are you doing?” I asked again.
-“to answer all you questions” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I am a relative; my name is Eusebio and I am eating or, trying to eat, lunch”
“But why are you eating here?” I insisted
-“Oh, the lady of the house (my grandmother) lets me come in and prepare and eat my lunch here during the week, when I am around”
I kept looking at this man; somewhere around 55, lean with very worn out and weathered skin, with an old scar patch above his right temple. However, his eyes were bright, vivid ice blue eyes which were very much alive and full of laughter. These eyes had seen much world and they were the feature that kept telling me that I should know this man.
-“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked.
-“If I did, I would not be asking you now, would I?” Not very respectful and this answer would have earned me a strong rebuke from most any adult in my immediate family. He just looked at me and suddenly broke into laughter.
-“My, My… there is hope for you yet. You have some spunk boy”.
more tomorrow... or Monday...
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