Although this is a work of fiction, it is very loosely based on something that happened at a Cuban resort many years ago. I didn't know the people involved and never knew all the details, but it sent my mind on a creative journey to unravel the tale I heard and spin one of my own. It could have happened this way….
~ Jenny
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The
Whole Truth
By Jennifer R. Cressman
“What’s she
doing here?”
The voice cut through the
din of the dining room due to its tone and intensity, not because of its
volume. In fact, it wasn’t loud at all. It was caustic, accusatory, acrid and
icy all at once. Reflected in the mirror of the night-darkened windows, I could
see heads swivel towards the speaker. She, however, had coyly returned to her
meal and was quite engrossed in deboning her fish. Her dinner companions were
visibly tsk-tsking, clucking and ducking like chickens. One glared my way as
she installed a large forkful of food in her mouth. At least the chewing
stopped her from gaping.
I had hoped I would not be
recognized by anyone who knows the story, or what they believe the story to be. The resort is usually quiet at this time
of year, mid October, so I thought I could slip in for a much-needed week of
rest and recreation with my husband before I had to return, on the government’s
peso, for another round of testimony. I’d booked a relatively private cabaña
but, as fate would have it, all the cabañas had to be closed due to electrical
problems following heavy summer rains and flooding – the cables are underground
here – so my reservation was transmuted.
I have been given a room in
the larger, slightly newer hotel on the hill. It was presented as an upgrade, but
I do not consider as such; I see it as an oppressive inconvenience. Nothing
else was available. The smaller beachfront hotel, though a little rundown,
would have been fine with me but it was fully booked. There was no other option
but to check into the Faraday, where I am continually assaulted by memories and
reminded why, to some people, I am now a pariah.
As I walk past the neatly
trimmed hedge along the path to my room, images and sensations overwhelm me
like a flashflood. His lips crush against
mine. One sinewy arm snakes around my back, pulling me closer. I do not
immediately resist. I unlock my patio door and step into the dark room. He gently pushes me backwards and we step together like
dancers, out of the light. He keeps drawing me to him, kissing me more
intensely as his passion rises. With his free hand, he begins to caress my hip.
His lips move away from my mouth, foraging along my neck. I flick on the
light and the bland, perfect room comes into focus. I run my fingers across my
mouth, wiping away the memory.
My husband won’t be arriving
until tomorrow, so I’m on my own tonight. I glance at my watch; it’s almost
8:30. The stage show will begin soon and, if I delay, I should be able to slip
into a seat at the back and not be noticed. I pour myself a slosh of rum, douse
the light and settle into a lounge chair on the patio, waiting to hear the
emcee’s multilingual patter. The glow of the walkway lights provides just
enough illumination for me to see who’s passing by without being very visible myself.
A young security guard strolls by without acknowledging my presence. Beneath his crisp uniform, I can feel his
warmth growing. He unbuttons his shirt, then he reaches for my blouse. I shake
my head and try to shift my body away from him. He holds me firmly but becomes
tender again and kisses me like a lover, gently on the mouth.
I sip my rum slowly,
savoring the soft strains of music sifting through the shrubbery. I recognize
the tune as “Dos Gardenias” – it must be a requisite for every band in Cuba. I
want more rum but know I should be careful; it gets me into trouble.
“Don’t keep teasing me, sweetie,” he whispers between kisses. “I know
what you want and you know it too.” He pulls me more tightly against him. He’s
fully charged.
“But, I don’t…” He won’t let me finish the sentence. And, in truth, I
don’t know what I was about to say. I’ve had too much rum. I’m hungry now. I
let his tongue slip between my teeth, and his hand reach inside my blouse. A
button pops and drops silently to the ground.
I hear snatches of the
announcer’s spiel – “Good evening ladies and gentlemen…Damen und Herren,
willkommen…Bonsoir mesdames et messieurs…Buenos noches y bienvenidos….” I begin
to mentally debate: go to the show or have more rum and go to bed? It’s a toss-up,
and I don’t have a coin to flip.
I can’t say he threw me to the ground but that’s where we end up. He’s
on top of me, pressing into me sharply. My skirt has slipped up and I can feel
the rough grass scratching the backs of my thighs.
I shift my weight on the
plastic chair and discover my dress is sticking to my damp ass. Sweating is
unavoidable in Cuba, as far as I’m concerned but, thankfully, it camouflages
the hot flashes. I decide to top up my glass and skip the show, as entertaining
as it always is. At least I can hear the music from the relative privacy of my
own patio.
His hand slips smoothly between my legs. I squirm but don’t really
fight. I can’t deny I’m turned on, even though I think I shouldn’t be. We’ve
known each other for years – before he was a guard, he was a groundskeeper –
and we’ve always had a flirtatious running joke about being hot for each other.
But it’s serious now. This is the crunch. Do I let him…?
The phone rings, jarring me
back to the present. “Hello?” The desk clerk asks if I will accept a call from
Rodrigo. Of course. Once again, my husband rides in like a shining knight to
rescue me; this time, from my own ghosts.
“Hola, mi amor! I am on my
way to you soon. Today, I waited for hours but the bus never came, and it was
too late to hitch a ride. I will try again mañana, okey-dokey?”
“Sure, honey.” What else can
I say? The tiny village where he lives with his aging mother is several hours
away, on a good day, when there’s transportation. It’s a rugged, mountainous area
though, and sometimes rain-swollen rivers, mudslides or fallen rocks block the
road. “Should I hire a taxi to come and get you?”
“No, mi amor, save your
money. I will go out to the road in the morning, pronto, and begin to hike the
hitch. Don’t worry about that. I think somebody will be going there, and I will
be by you then, before you know it! Okay, sweetie-pie?”
“Okay, you know
best. It’s your country, honey.”
“Si, claro, mi amor, pero,”
his voice softens, “soon your country will be my country too, right? That’s why
you must save your money. I will get a ride. You will see!”
“Yes, Roddy, I know. I just
wish you were here now.” I can’t stop my voice from quivering a little. “I miss
you!”
“Aw, cariño, I miss you
too.” He makes a kissing sound into the hollow, echoing phone. “I will be there
soon.” He kisses the phone again. “Hasta pronto, mi amor!”
I kiss back, but
with less exuberance. Then he’s gone.
I kiss back. Yes, I do. I should stop myself, I think, but I like
kissing. I like the feel of his lips and his body against me. We were friends
before I married Rodrigo. Why can’t –
Suddenly, my friend is grabbed from behind and
yanked off me. Rodrigo!
Rodrigo rescued me, like it
or not, and set the wheels in motion for everything that happened next, and is
still happening. My former friend, Calixto, is in jail, and I’m in my own
prison. My plan for a happy life in Canada with my handsome Cuban husband is on
hold. I need more and more rum to dampen the doubts eroding my mind. Could I
have done anything differently? If I had been brave and told Rodrigo that I was
half to blame, he would have immediately dumped me – I know how hot-blooded these Cubanos are. They have an unblinking
pride in their own masculinity, as well as a national double standard regarding
men and women. What’s good for the gander is not tolerated for the goose; a man
can have affairs but a woman is damned if she does anything remotely similar.
Now, here we are, following
the path that is rolling out before us. Calixto is doing the same. He’s
appealing the guilty verdict for his sexual assault charges, naturally. It’s
expensive and there’s little hope of a better outcome but what else can he do?
Does he know how guilty I feel? Does he know I secretly send money to his wife
and family? I reach for the rum bottle again but change my mind and go to bed
instead.
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I wait until the last
possible moment to go to breakfast, hoping to grab a quick bite and guzzle some
café cubano without being seen by anyone who might recognize me. No such luck.
The same women who spotted me last night at dinner are there, just inside the
door. They’ve seen me coming up the stairs and I have no choice but to walk
right past them.
Their eyes claw at me. I nod
curtly as I pass. There’s no point in pretending they don’t exist, or that I
don’t. They were my friends, and I
know they still consider themselves to be Calixto’s friends.
“She’s certainly
put on weight!”
“I almost didn’t
recognize her with that bad dye job.”
Intentionally loud,
their voices slice into my back.
“Who is that?” A
new woman in their midst asks hesitantly. She’s in for an earful.
I keep walking.
What else can I do?
“Well,” the ringleader begins, “she’s the reason that lives
have been ruined and an innocent man is rotting in a Cuban jail….”
I’m out of earshot before
she really gets rolling. Small mercy. I know the story she’ll spin. She’ll explain how I accused Calixto of
attempting to rape me and thereby ruined his life. She’ll say she knows him and knows he would never even
think of touching such a vile, unappealing person as me, who is just plain ugly
inside and out. She won’t mention we were all friends, way back when. She has
conveniently forgotten that, once upon a more innocent time, we all used to
joke around with as much sexual innuendo as possible. She doesn’t realize, when
she’s had too much rum, she flirts and teases more provocatively than I ever
did. She’s gained weight too.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s hard to comprehend that
I was here just a few weeks ago, for such a different reason. Rodrigo is by my
side and we have dressed with suitable conservative care. All possible details
must be considered when in a Cuban court, our lawyer has explained. Despite his
prison garb, I can see that Calixto has lost weight, though he had none to
spare. He barely dares to glance around the room but, even from this distance,
I can see his eyes are dull and hopeless. He has the haunted look of someone
who has given up. His wife and oldest daughter sit in chairs on the opposite
side of the aisle, slightly ahead of me. They are holding onto each other and
struggling not to break down. One whimpers softly and they both dab at their
eyes intermittently with ragged handkerchiefs. I can’t bear it. I squeeze my
freshly polished nails into my palms and wait impatiently. My stomach and mind
churn.
At last, the court officials
begin their unilingual spiel and a translator haltingly tells me everything in
English. Finally, I hear my name: “Lelanya Smith Torres, please come forward.”
I’m reminded to be honest, to fully and completely tell the truth in answering
each question. It’s hard to concentrate on what’s being asked. I keep looking
at Calixto, my old friend. We know the truth of the situation, even if neither
of us really remembers who made the first move. Yes, he was too pushy but I
never said no. The truth is, things simply got out of hand. If Rodrigo hadn’t
shown up when he did, what would have happened? I honestly don’t know. At this
moment, all I know is that I can’t stand it any longer. I have to say something. I have to try to change the
course of this leaky boat we’re all in, like it or not.
I look at my dear husband.
Has he always been faithful to me when I’m home in Canada and he’s here in hot
and sultry Cuba? Not likely. I know
Latinos. But, I do believe he loves me and is loyal to me, in his own way. And,
he desperately wants to get to Canada. Will he stand by me, if he hears the
whole truth? Probably, but he’ll find subtle ways to make me pay. I know him
pretty well, and I could do worse. He has a good heart. He knows me pretty
well, too, and we’ve come this far together. He could do worse.
“Señora Torres,
please tell us what happened on the night….”
I take a deep
breath and begin.
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