Swimming with
the Dolphins

Section 3

Uncle Peter Goes to Cuba

This section comes from a short journal, letters and photos found in Uncle Peter’s effects in 1947 by my grandfather after Peter’s death in an automobile accident in Central America. The first entry was dated April 10, 1920. His handwriting was terrible so the author had to make many editorial decisions about his meaning. Tucked in the journal were four pictures each with scrawled inscriptions on the back.

April 10, 1920:  Rob and Chad Hudson caught the train on March 18th fortified with two bottles of Havana Gold rum, a departure gift from Chandler. Rob had some wild hair idea about seeing a school chum in Tampa on their overnight. Havana is the next destination that Chandler has in mind for me. One moment he wants me to build him a real cabin on the Captiva beach. The next minute he wants me to sail to Havana and meet his friends and learn something about sugar. All the fuck I care about sugar is having enough for my coffee. Where it comes from I really could fucking care.

Chandler, in his sloppy southern way, gets me talking about the fucking mud and crap in France. I would just as soon forget the whole war but he won’t let it go. He thinks I’m some frogmen hero. His war, the Spanish-American, may have been glorious but mine was shit. And I mean shit. Give me enough rum and I blab like I have verbal diarrhea. For some fucking reason I cry like a baby for no reason.

As the train pulled away I said to Mr. Chandler, “I’m sorry to see my fucking little brother leave. I’ll miss him but I imagine your little project will keep me busy?”

“Peter, please, your swearing. Remember Mrs. Mason.”

“Mr. Chandler, I am who I am, if you don’t want me that way I will leave?”

Startled he replied, “No, no, I just want you to remember your manners, especially around the house.”

For dinner Mrs. Mason filled me with grilled grouper crispy on the edges swimming in butter and hot spices. She gave us rice filled with cooked red beans and gravy. She said it was Cuban. I was sure I’d fart all night or have the runs. Whatever happens I don’t care because the food was delicious and I loved it.

Chandler loved to plant me in his squishy wicker furniture and get me liquored up like last night. He started with smooth, golden rum with a couple of cubes. I happily drank one followed by another. The lights started to flicker and a halo formed around the flame. He cranked up the gramophone and played Caruso or some Irving Berlin songs about patriot shit. He said, “Peter, you’re a good man like me. You served your country and you deserve our praise and congratulations.” I about puked.

“Cut the crap, Mr. Chandler. War is shit and I mean it.”

As the rum flows his words slur. “They say your war was the war to end all wars.”

I say “No. The generals and politicians will see that it happens again. They never lived in those trenches. They never came to the hospital to see my friends dying without dicks, or eyes and other body parts. They don’t know. They just don’t know.” A gust blew out the lamps and we sat there in the dark as the quarter moon glared at us from behind the silvery cloud patches. The palm fronds flapped noisy.

I am still trying to figure out why I didn’t get on the train with Rob and Chad. I’m writing this because I have so much time to kill. For three days I’ve been sitting waiting from Mr. Chandler to get his business taken care of. I made several trips to Miss Margarita’s. The coke was high quality and plentiful. The girls were smooth and young and seemed to like fucking me. But Miss Margarita was the best. She and I sat on the horsehair couch one afternoon as the rain pelted on the tin roof. She spoke passionately about her mother’s home island of Cuba. She spoke of the beautiful beaches, the beautiful, historic city of Havana and the lush green countryside. She moved closer to me and cradled my head in her lap as she stroked my wavy hair. She was a million miles away from the dinky little house on Front Street in Fort Myers. She spoke of her handsome brother who was an officer when Menial was in his second scandalous term as President. She told me she suspected her brother was killed during the election because no one has heard from him since. The tears from her cow-like brown eyes were dropping onto my cheek.

She pulled me upstairs with her. I had never been with a woman like her before. The lovemaking lasted for what seemed like hours. I was late for dinner but really didn’t care. I chose not to tell Mr. Chandler what had happened even though I knew he would love to hear every detail of our intimate experiences. I was totally exhausted and told him so as soon as we finished dinner. He followed me upstairs and sat on the toilet as I showered and toweled off for his entertainment. He put his hand on my shoulder as he walked me to the porch. He paused, “Why don’t you move into this room. It is closer to the bathroom.”

I smiled, “No, we’re leaving in the morning. Right? I’ll stay on the porch.” He said nothing further. The next morning as in previous mornings Mr. Chandler and I continued talking about the details of the cabin he wanted me to construct on Captiva. We spent hours talking about the details. The location he wanted was close to the spot where we had our tent. He sketched a rough floor plan on a piece of brown paper. I asked a thousand questions. Abruptly at 9:30a he got up and went inside to dress for the day. He stopped as I was reading the morning paper, “I’m going to Western Union to send a couple of telegrams and try to make a telephone call to New Orleans.” Mr. Edison had telephones in his house so I could not figure out why Mr. Chandler had never installed them in his house. After he left I wandered around ending up in a hammock on the boat dock. I was looking forward to getting going to the island because I missed my natural swims. I was trying to be on my good behavior around Mrs. Mason.

A week later Mr. Chandler and I returned to Captiva. We took fishing gear and had ordered lumber and other essentials to be delivered. The main purpose of our trip was to introduce me as construction crew. Marcus drove the launch and Misser Jones had all his food supplies. The water was calm as we motored down the Caloosahatchee River and into Pine Island Sound. The breeze on the sound kicked up a light chop. The sun beat down and made it really hot. I stripped off my shirt and Mr. Chandler warned me about the danger of the sun to the skin.

“I’ll take a fucking chance. I plan to be as brown as a Cuban but the time this cabin is done.”

“I understand that you have learned something about Cuban women.”

“So she told you?”

“Yes, but she was extremely gracious. She told me you know what you are doing in bed. You are a lucky boy. Few men have ever been with Miss Margarita. She is beautiful in a way.”

“Her skin is so beautifully brown and buttery. I plan to be tanned from head to toe.”

“Captiva is place where that is still possible. But it won’t be for long. They’re building a big camp up the beach. I’m goin’ keep my five acres for a long time. I want to keep them away.”

“Are they working on the cabin yet?”

“We’ll see. I hope so but I wonder. These people don’t work.”

When we got off the launch the air was sweltering. The mosquitoes were not so bad but the beach flies were biting. I wondered if building this cabin was a good idea. Mr. Chandler began to stomp around because none of the supplies he had ordered had arrived. “Fucking imbeciles. I told them to get that stuff over here.” We walked out to the water and up the beach to the spot he wanted to build the cabin. He ordered Marcus to bring the tent to the exact spot where we had our tent. The three of us pitched not only the sleeping tent but a tent made of mosquito netting that was big enough for chairs and a table for eating. “This is how we are going to keep the flies and mosquitoes away.”

The next day was a relaxed fishing day. Finally the supplies arrived. The delay turned out to be good because Mr. Chandler and I decided on a slightly different site for the cabin which appeared to be a few feet higher on the shell ledge. We planned a deeper set back from the water in hopes that it would be higher than most hurricane surges. We had the big banyan tree just north of the house. Miser Jones set his cooking fire south of us by thirty or forty yards. As we sat eating dinner the second night we saw a steamer heading south. We could see the trail of black smoke as the giant pistons turned the screws. We watched quietly and Mr. Chandler blurted out, “Peter, let’s go to Havana!”

“When? Firkin’ fine with me.”

“Sooner, rather than later.” That is all he said. I began to think about the wonderful things Miss Margarita had said about Cuba and Havana. Mr. Chandler had been drinking more rum than usual. Out of the blue he said, “Peter, my son Paul is a good boy but he’s hard to know. I call him aloof but my wife says he’s just shy. He has no fire. He is like, I mean, was like, when she was alive, my wife. God rest her icy sole. Don’t misunderstand. I loved her once but the fire died. My son is more like her than me. He has absolutely no concept of the value of money. He spends, no he wastes my money playing the horses. Someone has to run my business. He can’t. You interested, I’ll teach you if you want to learn.” Let’s go swimming it is hideously hot.” He stripped off his clothes revealing his wrinkled but firm body. His massive brown balls swung low between his bird legs as he pushed back the netting and stepped onto the sunny beach. I followed him. We floated and watched the sun sink below the horizon.

Mr. Chandler changed. He had been like a grandfather – friendly, understanding and a bit formal. At the beach he quickly lost his civility. He stopped shaving; he didn’t bother changing clothes even when the ones he wore got ripe; and talked to me more like a friend his age. He had no inhibitions; in fact, he would take crap in clear site of the tent. That annoyed me but I didn’t say anything. His profanity regularly startled me.

He returned to his imperial self when the workmen finally arrived. The more abusive his orders the slower they moved. After five days the concrete footings were poured. Mr. Chandler insisted that the house have a firm foundation. The workers had proposed setting the substructure of the house on several large flat stones they found. But Mr. Chandler, tactfully but forcefully, insisted on concrete footings. They mixed bag after bag of concrete by hand in an old wooden boat. They stopped for two or three hours midday because of the heat.

The substructure was finally set. They were ready to put in the floor joists. Mr. Chandler was ready to leave and gave more and more orders. He said to me on our last evening, “I wonder if anything I told them will happen. I don’t have any faith they care what I said. Peter, you and I are leaving tomorrow. I want you to return in two or three weeks to supervise. Hopefully, they will have the roof on. You can bring the plumbing fixtures with you. The bastards would sell them if they’re here too early.”

Marcus returned with us to Ft. Myers with a long list of supplies needed by Miser Jones. Mr. Chandler decided the best way to keep the men working was to have Miser Jones cooking meals and Marcus available to return to Ft. Myers for supplies. Both Marcus and Miser Jones were quite agreeable to the proposition. They were getting paid well by Negro standards. Both needed and, I think, liked being out on the island. The fishing was excellent.

When we were dropped off at Mr. Chandler’s dock Mrs. Mason met us. “My, my, y’all are dirty ones. Please don’t bring those clothes into my clean house.” I waited for Mr. Chandler’s response since I thought it was his house.

He turned to me, “Boy, get out of those clothes. Mrs. Mason if you don’t want to see this boy walk into your house naked you better bring him something to put on.” She turned in mock disgust and stepped up the long stairs up to the back porch. She went inside as we followed her up to the porch. I sat on a straight backed wooden chair where I had seen Mrs. Mason popping green beans. I pulled off my shoes and socks and was unbuttoning my shirt when she returned with two of Mr. Chandler’s robes.

That night sitting on the front porch freshly showered and shaved Mr. Chandler holding his third rum drink said, “Peter what you know about sugar?”

I snapped, “I know its white and I need it in my coffee.” I lowered my head remembering I was still Mr. Chandler’s guest even though he acted more like we were the same age.

“I mean what do you plan to do when you return to Philadelphia?”

“College, I promised my parents.”

“How long will that take?”

“Three years if I work my butt off.”

“Why not attend Tulane?”

“Why Tulane, that ain’t no Columbia?”

“Oh, you arrogant Eastern snob,” he said smiling at me. “I mean you could get your degree and learn the sugar business from me.”

My heavy tongue was getting loose, “What makes you think I give a fuck about the sugar business.”

“Because you need a profession and have no idea what you are going to do. Besides I don’t see you in construction management.” We both laughed. “For now sugar and coffee are big. What the fuck better do you have to do that’s better than importing sugar?”

I looked squarely at him without smiling, “Mr. Chandler, please watch your language.”

He flipped up his robe right in my face. We both laughed.

“We’re going to Havana, right? You are coming along?”

He paused. “No I think you should go. I really have to go back to New Orleans.”

“One moment you want me to build a cabin on the Captiva beach. The next minute you want me to sail to Havana and meet your friends and learn something about sugar. So what the fuck do you do want me to do?”

“Peter, I don’t mind your swearing but not when Mrs. Mason is in the house.”

“She’s gone.”

“I know. I mean earlier. She’s a good Catholic woman and I don’t want her to leave. Besides she is a good cook.” We both laughed.

My words got sloppier. “I’ll listen in the morning now I’ve got to sleep. I pushed on the wicker arms hoping I could stand. I took one step toward the door.

“Tomorrow at breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“Deal.” I walked through the house trying to keep the walls from hitting me.

Instead of breakfast which I missed the conversation continued at the yacht club but not on land rather in the aft stateroom of his grand, polished motor yacht which was three times longer than the one we took to Captiva. A table was set for two with linen, silver and wine glasses beside the goblets. Cushioned settees lined the outer walls under the spot-free glass wind protectors. Mr. Chandler wasted little time. The launch pushed off and headed down the river channel in the direction of Captiva.

“First, let’s talk about the cabin on Captiva. When you get back from Cuba it should be almost completed. I want you to go out there and see for yourself. I’m going back to New Orleans.” I sat silently because he didn’t ask me he just told me. We walked from the open aft mahogany deck through the double doors into the saloon. An attendant dressed in naval braid and gold buttons secured the doors as a breeze cooled us on a sweltering muggy Florida spring day. The waiter seated Chandler then pushed my chair under me as I sat down firmly.

“I want you to go with Draper when he goes to Havana.”

“Why the fuck – Havana?” I lowered my irritated voice.

“Peter, your mouth.”

“Sorry. But really why Havana?”

That’s my business. Sugar is my business. Prices are good but I think they’re going to go down. And I mean really down because of the friggen beet farmers. Do you know Coca Cola?”

“Yes.”

“I supply sugar to their Atlanta operations. They make the syrup. All the bottlers add is water and gas to make the pop.”

“Why Havana?”

“That’s where the sugar is, my boy. I want you to meet Hector and Orlando Calvo. They are one of the major sugar families of Cuba. They’re small by comparison to Havemeyers. I like them because I buy enough and they give me special attention.”

“How much do you buy?”

“In 1920 I will supply Coca Cola with 200,000 pounds or so.”

The conversation continued on and off as we were served multiple courses. The more I thought about Cuba the more interested I became. We drank champagne with our meal and then retired to the aft deck to drink brandy and smoke Cuban cigars. The cigars convinced me I was going. Fuck the cabin on Captiva! After a pause, “I’m sorry my fucking little brother had to go back to school. He would like to see Cuba, too. I miss him but I imagine your little project will keep me busy?”

Mr. Chandler rose from his chair and pushed an envelope into my hand. “Open this when you have time.” He stepped away signaling time to return up the river to the club. In an all-too-often drunken fashion plans were finalized. The trip to Cuba would be three weeks to concentrate on the sugar industry. Returning to Florida would include supervising the construction of the Captiva cabin. Sometime in the summer Mr. Chandler would come down from New Orleans. Summer’s end would mean me returning to Philadelphia.

***

April 20, 1920:  I stared over the rail watching the bow cut the surface of the sea sailed toward Havana. I wondered why the water boils white when it is cut by the cold steel of the ship’s hull. The slicing was silent but the water churned white and rolled away. The black canvas sky was covered with sparkles. A tiny light was visible ahead and it brightened slightly as we drew closer. A fisherman’s lantern I suspected. We never reached the light and it disappeared into the night. I heard a faint ringing coming from the pilot’s control wheel house signaling the engine room. The vibration intensified and the ship moved more swiftly.

I wasn’t tired even though I slept little at Mr. Chandler’s last night. After Mrs. Mason left we stripped to our underwear because the night was so hot. The port we drank should have knocked me on my ass but it didn’t. We talked and talked. Chandler finally let me stagger upstairs after midnight. I showered with him sitting on the toilet. He had to wake me early to get me to the steamer. He gave me letters of introduction in Spanish stating that he vouched for my U.S. citizenship since I had nothing to prove I was a citizen. He told me I would be met by someone when I arrived in Havana. He assured me with, “Don’t worry they will find you.”

I boarded and was shown my cabin. I haven’t spent ten minutes there since we departed. It was evening when we arrived in Key West but cocktails had already been served. About half of the people got off. Only twelve got on. I didn’t get off because I planned to do that on the way back up the coast. I wanted to find a young writer named Hemingway who I met during the war.

Dinner was served immediately after we departed. The deck vibrated under my feet as the pistons chugged up and down. I got up from Draper’s table. I was the only person speaking English. Everyone including Draper was speaking Spanish except for one old German guy. I wanted to get out of there.

Afterwards I found the tiny bar off of the main dining room filled with Cubans smoking big black cigars. The smoky blue cloud was strangely intoxicating and I stood at the mahogany rail slowly breathing in through my nose. Draper offered me my own cigar but I refused and don’t know why.

Outside I pulled a bleached wood deck chair up close to the rail. I took off my shirt. The sultry air was only slightly cooled by the movement of the ship. I leaned my head back, my eyelids closed and I slipped into sleep. I opened my eyes detecting the gray light of dawn pushing back the ebony night curtain. I closed my eyes. The next time my eyes opened the sun was bright and land was in sight. I returned to my room to shower and dress in the lightest clothes I had. The Morro was in view and we sailed directly toward the massive fortification built by the Spanish two hundred years ago to protect the harbor of Havana. The sharp lines of the battlements were warmed by the coral blocks used to build the structure. The pox marks were constructed by millions of sea creatures who died creating the maze-colored surface. Razor blades sharp cutting tools made strong building blocks out of nature’s creation.

The St. Petersburg slowed to a crawl as we slid by the Morro. It’s guns silent for more than twenty years since we drove the Spanish out of these waters. Fishing boats with nets draped like wet curtains hung from the trawler yard arms. We passed the Flagler Miami steaming out of the harbor heading toward Florida’s east coast. I waved as the passengers weakly waved my direction. We tied up at Pier 11, its pink paint peeling revealing the naked, bleached coral underneath. The gang plank was set and men rushed down to waving arms of family and friends. I am not usually hesitant but I was alone in a foreign country and didn’t know anyone nor did I see anyone who looked like they were looking for me. I slowly descend the gang plank and walked toward the waiting officers. My letter from Mr. Chandler written in Spanish seemed plenty for the gray-green clad officers. They spoke happily and waved me to pass by. But pass to where I didn’t know. Thoughts of “What the fuck do I do now?” did cross my mind.

Out of the jabbering Spanish crowd a brown face stepped to my face, “Senor Hearn?”

“Si,” speaking my entire Spanish vocabulary.

As he took my bag he spoke at me, “Sígame, por favor. Nos vamos ahora.”We entered the terminal through its twenty foot high arches. The hot, humid hall was a teaming fish market filled with yelling, laughter and pervasive fish smells.

He motioned me into a petit vis-à-vis harnessed to a finely boned, chestnut colt. The size of the horse did not suggest a slow gait. The man laid the lines on her haunches and she stepped out quickly. The driver did not look in my direction as we followed the harbor shore to the east. The sun shone squarely into my face. The clip and clop of the horse hooves drew us across one cobbled stone plaza with a massive statue of a leader on a horse. We passed fountain circles as we continued passed fishing boats and the warehouses before beginning a slow ascent to the hills overlooking Havana. The sights and sounds were intoxicating.

An hour passed and I needed to piss. I tapped the driver. He stopped under a tree that spread across the road. The hedges were scraggly but close. I stepped out of the carriage and into the bush. I returned and we continued. Half an hour later he turned off the dusty main road through two reddish stone pillars.

The Castilian colt slowed as we moved up the sloped drive that steeply ascended to the hilltop. The drive was lined with orange trees each with its trunk painted white to deter the bugs. The carriage wheels bumped and the body swayed as we moved forward. We passed through another arched gate and arrived in the gravel court before a scotch-colored hacienda with red tiled roof. Red clay splatters painted the lower quarter of the stucco surface of the house. Magnificent iron work protected the three main portals. The iron gates in the center were open. They framed a heavy, dark wooden double door curved at the top. I was waiting with my driver who held my bag. Squealing quietly a half door swung open and two tanned men in loose trousers and straw sombreros stood at attention. One man took my bag as the driver returned to his seat, reined the horse to the right and clattered across the gravel through another gate. I stood alone in the cobble stoned courtyard anchored by a fountain spurting water through fish’s mouths. The water’s surface was blanketed with water lilies. All shutters of the two story house were closed. My soaked clothes stuck to my body. Ugly water stains colored my shirt. I stood waiting for something to happen.

“Buenos dias! Senor Hearn.”

“Hello,” I said weakly to a tall tan man with a bushy mustache in a double breasted suit.

“’Cuse my English. Miser Chandler cabled you come. Plez come into my how’s.” I followed his welcoming motion into the foyer. The house was cool and dark. Cigar smell and fire smoke lingered in the air. Another man approached and motioned for me to follow him.

The man in the suit said, “Food to come.” Every step of my keels on the variable colored terra cotta caused a small explosion that echoed as we approached dual staircase that led us to the second floor. I followed the soft soles of the short man into a dark bed chamber. He put my bag down and cracked the shutter enough for me to see that someone else was already staying in the room. There were two beds separated by twenty feet and a heavy dark wood table with four cushioned tall backed chairs symmetrically arranged around the table. He smiled, didn’t speak and backed out of the room. A sweet faced teenage girl with two long black braids soon stood at the door with a tray. She smiled and waited for me to invite her in. She set the tray on the table and backed out of the room.

I saw the food and realized how hungry I was. I closed the door and took off my soaking shirt, and shoes and socks. The wooden floor boards were cooling. I ate. I slept most of the afternoon. Much later I heard the shutters open but couldn’t open my eyes. I could vaguely see a male figure moving across the room. Whoever he was left only to return and completely open the shutters and stand silently before the window looking out. My sleepy, gravelly voice spoke, “Buenos dais!”

“Hi, American soldier boy.”

“You obviously speak English. Sorry. I’m Peter and you?”

“Modesto. Modesto Casanova Casilda to be precise. I’m a guest here, too.”

“Senor Calvo told me to tell you that we should join him and his sister and her daughters at six-thirty. Dinner will be at eight. There is entertainment and celebration.”

“Celebration of what?”

“I don’t really know but I suspect a birthday or anniversary.”

The light fell squarely on the handsome face of Modesto as he conspicuously ran his left hand through his gleaming black hair. He wore a white bloused shirt open three buttons. His black pants accented his slim waist and rounded hips. I was staring and he caught me. He smiled, “You here to learn about senor’s sugar empire, I understand.”

“Honestly I don’t know exactly what I am doing here. My friend, an older guy, knows Senor Calvo. He thinks I should come to work for him in the sugar business. I came to meet Senor and learn something. I don’t know what.” He smiled.

“Come over here,” Modesto commanded. I got off of the bed and walked to the window. “You see those buildings. That’s where they make cane into sugar.” I could see six or seven buildings a hundred yards or more behind the back wall of the hacienda. The building to the right was the tallest. Beside it stood a tall smoke stack belching dirty brown smoke that drifted into the clouds. The other buildings were West Indies style and looked well used.

“Modesto, what are the buildings for?”

“Call me CeCe, all my friends do. I don’t like the name, Modesto. I am not what my name suggests.”

I stood looking out into the sun drench afternoon as the smoke from the burning cane stalks scented the air. “I used to live here. I have a place in La Habana now. See that little cabana by the pool; that was where I lived. I’ll show you if you want to see. How about a swim?” The glistening shimmer of the water invited us. The palm fronds waved like giant fans slightly cooling the sultry late afternoon air.

“Sure. Dress here or dress there? I’ve got to find my suit.” I paused then used his name which seemed to girly for his masculinity. “CeCe what attire do you wear this evening. I have only a little more than I am wearing now. I have a seersucker. Will that be OK?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. But I got plenty of other things if you want to wear them.”

I didn’t know this guy and he acted like we were brothers. “Let’s dress at the pool. That way I don’t have to find another robe. Get your suit.” He walked over to a chest and pulled out his suit. He reached in another chest and pulled out two towels. “We’ll use these and they’ll bring more for the bathroom.” He turned and walked toward the door.

“By the way I met a man with a bushy mustache when I arrived. Was that Orlando or the other brother?”

“I doubt either. They are probably at the office. You met Ernesto. He runs the house for the brothers since neither of them is married.” He walked ahead with a determination that was unnecessary in light of the afternoon temperature. We descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard to an opening with a ornamented wrought iron fence. CeCe pushed it open slowly as I came up to him. He had a solid physique and a sensual bearing that was magnetic. His five feet seven inch frame made it through the entry insuring that I would have to duck to avoid bumping my head.

He opened the door to the pool house and the heat hit me in the face. Without hesitation he stripped off his clothes and put on the smallest swimming suit I had ever seen. It barely covered his butt and significantly accentuated his maleness. He wigged his hips as he undressed. I was conspicuously watching him and not undressing. His smile told me he was aware of my stares. He stopped as he pulled up his suit and looked right into my eyes but didn’t speak. He headed toward the door, stepped onto the tiled surface and dove into the water. I was left to fumble with my drenched clothes and bulky, knee length bath suit.

I watched as his hairless body slipped through the water. He swam a couple of laps and came over to where I was floating. He stood close to me. I noticed he had shaved a triangle on his chest. Short hairs were reappearing. He pointed, “This is where I had my cunt so I cut it. I hate my own hair. It’s pubic wiry.”

“Is your mouth always so fucking graphic?” I said laughing.

“Yeah, something wrong?” He pushed off intentionally brushing my stomach. I went after him and caught him half way across the pool and pushed his head under the water. He retaliated by jumping on my shoulders. If anyone had been watching they would have thought we were twelve not twenty years old. We wrestled until CeCe got a cramp or so he said. I pushed off of him and floated on my back with my eyes closed. I didn’t notice the two brown faces that stood in the shadows at the end of the pool. I turned over to see CeCe hanging on the pool edge speaking up at them. He turned and motioned me over.

“Peter, this is Orlando,” motioning to the man on the left. Swinging his arm to the right, “And this is Hector. They don’t speak English so good but don’t let them fool you. They understand damn well.” He swam away as they both jointly greeted me with “Buenos dies.”

“How are you? I am happy to be here. Excuse me for not being dressed.” I wasn’t sure they understood but they smiled. I joined CeCe for a few more laps before jumping onto the pool deck. As we dressed CeCe said, “You want a suit like mine I got another one. I can only wear one at a time.”

“To be truthful for the past two weeks in Florida we haven’t bothered with suits. We were out on a deserted island fishing. I forgot what an annoyance a swimming suit is.”

“Well, tonight later after the party let’s come back and swim your way. I do it all the time when the house is quiet. Don’t be surprised if the brothers join us.”

“Neither is married?”

“I’m not really sure they’re brothers. I think cousins. At the party there will be more of their relatives.”

“Are you related to them?”

“Me,” he laughed. “I’m really no one’s relative. I’m a fucking bastard.” His demeanor changed but he kept talking. “I’ll tell you the whole story but not now. We’ve got to get dressed. Party starts soon.”

After a bath he came into the room with his towel loosely tied at his waist. It fell to the floor and he didn’t bother to pick it up. I left to bathe myself. In his under shorts he followed me in. “Do you want to wear some of my clothes. When I pack I bring everything.”

I didn’t want to wear a seersucker suit so I said, “Let’s see what there is. I am bigger in the chest that you for sure. But we are about the same height.” I finished and joined him as he tied a burgundy cravat around his neck. He obviously wasn’t waiting for me because he strode toward the door and only looked around to say, “Try those things and see what you think.” He closed the door.

He had laid out a dark green open necked shirt on top of my freshly washed khaki trousers that Mrs. Mason had insisted she launder the morning I left. Thankfully she did. I looked further and realized that CeCe had picked out socks and laid them on top of my saddle oxfords. I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. I left the room and followed the noise to a large cool room on the opposite side of the second floor balcony. I entered to be welcomed happily by many brown faces. Orlando or Hector grabbed my arm and pulled me to meet an older gentleman who spoke no English. I couldn’t take my eyes off of CeCe. Even in the stifling heat he wore his matador black jacket with his loosened cravat. The ends hung down from the collar of the white blousy shirt that he had unbuttoned down three bottoms revealing his chiseled chest. Four or five young, giggly girls surrounded him. They didn’t seem to notice that I had entered the room. CeCe called, “Peter, come meet the family.” I stepped toward him and the circle around him reluctantly broke. He spoke first in English then in Spanish, “This is our guest. He is a friend of Orlando’s from New Orleans.” Only after the Spanish translation did they resonate with what he said. I didn’t have to speak I just smiled.

At supper time I was seated next to Orlando who sat at one end of the dark mahogany table and next to one of the cousins, Cecelia. Both spoke to me in broken English graciously but CeCe who was across was constantly breaking in from his conversation to translate. He was enjoying his starring role. I summarized it was a role he often played. After dinner there were cigars to smoke and brandy to sip. The women and girls disappeared and the house quieted.

After the party we returned to the dark pool for a swim. Like CeCe said the brothers came to join us. We spoke in hushed tones and sat around in our towels and smoked another cigar. My head was spinning after the second one. I excused myself and CeCe followed me upstairs jabbering away.

All I said was, “The women around here seem to adore you.”

He said, “I love to kiss them all like you do in the states. Kissing on the lips even for husband and wife is rare. I like to kiss on the lips. I am trying to get them comfortable. I manage to get a peck on rare occasions. There is plenty of cheek kissing but lips are forbidden. I fantasize about sleeping with Barbaretta. She is the pretty one with braided hair in the white dress and with white bows. I love her but she is already married. I hate her husband. He is a brute and I think he hurts her. If I ever find out that is true I will kill him. If I ever sleep with her which I haven’t I would first stroke her beautiful black hair then slowly move my hand onto her back and loosen her underwear that holds her breast. How do you say?”

“Bra.”

“Oh, si, bra. I would rub her back so slowly and let my hand move down to her pantaloons. I would not go inside and go up her leg to the ribbons. I know her breasts are as soft as a baby’s bottom.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen her nude two times but she doesn’t know. I want to photograph her that way when we go to her aunt’s house in Havana. I have told her and she said she will think about it. Oh, I am hurting.”

“So am I.”

He told me more about Barbaretta but more important he started a nightly ritual. He would start by recapping the entire day in glorious detail. I never knew someone so happy being with family and at home.

***

June 1, 1920:  Barbaretta’s birthday party was on the first day of what turned out to be six weeks in Cuba. The day after the party Orlando, Hector, CeCe and I watched an army of dirty brown men cut the cane in the torturous heat. They chopped with machetes until I thought their arms would fall from their shoulders. Muscles glistened as the young men in dirty undershirts chopped and chopped. The old men gathered the fallen stalks and piled them in rickety wagons with mismatched wheels that creaked and moaned as the scraggly horses pulled the teetering load to the collecting point. The wagon was unloaded by another scraggly army and put on a bigger conveyance pulled by four oxen. The giants hypnotically lumbered along with the cane swaying and the flies swarming as they moved toward the giant presses.

Hector explained in Spanish and CeCe interpreted, “The presses squeeze the juice out of the stalks into catching troughs that carry the liquid to giant vats. The juice can be held for a short time. It will spoil if the juice isn’t boiled into syrup. That is why the charcoal smoke is always blowing and bits of soot cover window sills and table tops this time of the year. The giant cookers boil twenty-four hours a day.” In the miserable heat I stand watching as the men and boys sweat. They carefully avoid the jagged edges of the cut cane leaves. Their shoulders droop and they never smile.

With the help of CeCe’s translation I am introduced to the economics of sugar. Like Mr. Chandler the brothers are skeptical that wartime sugar prices can be maintained at the current high levels since the fighting has ceased. “Fucking American beet farmers,” CeCe blurted out that evening as we smoked our cigars. Orlando described how he and Hector came to know Mr. Chandler.

Orlando spoke in increasingly better English, “He came with the Americans in the war. I mean Americans against Spanish. He was in the army of General Roosevelt.” He meant Colonel Roosevelt who became President Theodore Roosevelt. I choose to not break his train of thought.

“We met him in Trinidad after the fighting stopped. He was sick with yellow fever after riding with his men from Santiago de Cuba over the mountains to Trinidad. They camped on the beach side of the harbor for two weeks and the men were mostly drunk or sick. I went to see the camp and saw men living like animals. Chandler got better because he moved into town and stayed at the Hotel Sevilla. The hotel was upstairs over the bar. He had a room that was on the corner so the breeze cut through and kept him cool. The place was pretty shabby. The hotel owner arranged that he was nursed by our cousin. She stayed with him for days and he got better. We would see them walking around the block and later around town as he got his strength back. Chandler loved to sit in the square in front of the cathedral and listen to the old men play guitars and sing. Still when he comes to Havana he wants to go to the old bars and listen to the slave music. How is he doing now that his wife die?”

“He seems to be fine. I think he is looking forward to a new life without her,” I said hoping they didn’t think I was insulting a woman I never knew. They smiled knowingly.

CeCe blurted out, “Let’s go to Trinidad. That’s where I am from. Maybe we can stay with Senora Gonzalez in Casilda. Maybe my brothers will be gone. What do you think?” CeCe said looking at the brothers.

They looked at each other. “You go. It’s a rough trip for old men like us.”

“We will go. You ride a horse?” He smiled looking my direction.

“Yes, asshole, I ride.”

“It’s a couple of days by horseback. Can your butt take it?”

“I don’t know but I guess we will find out.”

The next day with three caballeros and pack horses we set out for Trinidad on the south coast of Cuba about two hundred miles from Calvo’s estate. A mail boat would have been easier but CeCe said that lacked adventure. We rode. My horse was a small chestnut filly named Esperiza. My body covered her back but didn’t seem to hinder her. We traveled into the countryside moving east through miles and miles of flat cane fields. Sweat slid down my spine into my pants. Our tan cotton shirts quickly became dark brown. We passed hundreds of hot, sweaty brown men chopping, loading and hauling. I asked, “CeCe, what kind of wages do those men make?”

“Shit, little. And with sugar prices so high it should be more. I agree with Hector that the sugar prices can’t stay as high as they are now that the American sugar beet farms are growing again. Foreigners built thirty-eight Cuban sugar mills in the last six years. They put them out east in Cameguey and Oriente. Instead of paying Cuban men decent wages they imported Haitians and Jamaicans. They pay them even less. If sugar prices drop we could have some very unhappy workers. Your United States government has made us too dependant on sugar. That is how they control us.

“The US doesn’t control this country,” I said smiling at him knowing full well that the United States government has done everything it could do to insure political instability. They did it first with the Platt Amendment and now support Menocal as our puppet.”

“The best way to get rich in this country is to be in the Menocal government. I know people who think about all these things and they think the whole system stinks. They want to change it. But the economy is good so nothing will happen until sugar prices go down. And they will come down.” CeCe gently stroked the mane of his colt.

“What do Hector and Orlando feel about the United States?”

“Are you kidding, they got rich because of the US. They were on Menocal’s side from the beginning but they are not so sure now. The presidential election is going to be a disaster. I heard Orlando say that he wouldn’t be surprised if the US Army doesn’t come to calm things down. I don’t like politics. But these guys,” as he swept his right arm toward the platoon of brown men in dirty white linen, “someday are going to say ‘Enough’ with guns. There will be spilled blood. The priests at school talk all the time about the revolution in Russia and how that could happen here.”

“I know politicians don’t have any idea what is going on. We lived worst over in France. They kept fucking around to get peace and the interminable months passed and more guys were killed or had their legs blown off. For what, fucking politicians saving their political asses. I don’t trust a single one of the bastards.”

The terrain about midday on the second day was rising toward the distant mountains. We had come half way according to CeCe. I said, “Let’s take a boat back.”

CeCe looked at me and bunched up his black shiny eyebrows. “Fucking right. My butt is raw. Let’s take a day off.” That afternoon we stopped at a small hacienda by a mountain fed stream rushing toward the sea near Cienfuegos. The mountains north of Trinidad rose over the sloping terrain. We slept late. The senora fed us simple farm food. Her husband made his own rum of which we freely partook. They were happy to have the five of us around. The next morning we paid them and rode on. CeCe and I agreed that our legs and butts enjoyed the time off.

We arrived in Trinidad on the evening of the fourth day. The cobbled streets were well maintained and the well kept homes and stores reflected a quaint elegance of a different century. After checking into the hotel we walked to a tavern near the center square in front of the sandstone cathedral and Catholic school buildings. The buildings flanked one of the largest slave markets in the Caribbean. Board wide steps two hundred feet by three hundred feet were the site of the market. We were seated and served a beer. CeCe said, “An estimated 50,000 slaves were bought and sold since the market opened about 1770. The market continued to operate up until 1820. But slaves continued to be bought and sold unofficially until well after the defeat of the Confederacy in 1865.”

That night in the hotel CeCe was in a mood. He paced nervously, “I’m not sure this was such a good idea. This place makes me feel dirty.”

“If you don’t want to go to the plantation, it’s OK by me.” I sat quietly hoping he would calm down.

Talking to no one but himself he said, “It spooks me. I hate this place. What was I thinking about?”

“What spooks you?”

CeCe looked at me straight in the face. “Did you know I was a bastard?”

I tilted my face toward his glorious brown eyes. “Yes, you mentioned it once”. Naked he lay across the bed with his hand propping up his head. It was a hot and we had dropped the mosquito nets around the bed. Two fans with hypnotic mahogany blades barely stirred the air. My sweat was wetting the bed covers as I faced him. “Tell me how you know?” I sensed he wanted to talk and I was the only one there to listen.

“You know the other day you ask me about my birthday. I lied. No one really knows or can remember when I was born. I picked April 27 or maybe it was Senora Gonzalez. Anyway that’s my birthday. I was born near Trinidad on the ranch where we will go. I was told that my mother was fifteen-years old with long brown curly hair who was fucked by an olive skinned Spanish soldier who was here for the war. He was shipped off to Spain by the time my mother found out she was pregnant.

“Did he ever know she was pregnant?”

“I guess he might have because the soldiers stayed around for a while. I don’t know. All I know is he was a soldier. My grandmother took care of me more than my mother. My mother was never right after he left. I didn’t know any of the story until I was a thirteen or fourteen. That’s when someone told me about my father. I knew much earlier I was a bastard because I was constantly taunted by my older brothers. Years later after I had moved to Havana I sat with Senora Gonzalez and we rocked in the rockers on her front porch. You will meet her tomorrow. I remember she kept dabbing her eyes as she talked and rocked. She told me I was a healthy and beautiful light brown baby and a full head of silky black hair. She said that I lived quietly with my mother and her parents in one of the cabins on the ranch. I’ll show you where I was born. She said that one day when I was about three years old my mother died. Senora remembered that she had been in her bed for several days and then one morning her father found her hanging by her neck in a shed behind their house. She hanged herself.

“I searched all throughout the house and couldn’t find her. I cried and cried and no one could comfort me. I threw myself onto the dirt and kicked and threw the red clay. Senora said they just let me rant and kick. Finally I stopped and raised my eyes to find a shiny pair of black boots inches before my nose. According to Senora Gonzalez I looked up at Senor, a tall dark man with bushy black mustache, who was staring down at me. He reached down and picked me up and dropped me onto my two little legs. He harshly directed, ‘Deja de llorar’. Senor grabbed me up under his right armpit and carried me to the dusty farm truck.

Senor brought me to the middle of the courtyard. I was turned over to Muriel, the children’s servant, who took me to the back of the house and took off all of my clothes and put me in a tub of cold water. Senora said I was screaming. Muriel washed me very hard. The other children came to watch and when I realized they were watching I smiled and danced in the tub. Senora said, ‘Nunca ha dejado de bailar’. She was right I have never stopped dancing.

“After that I was dried and dressed in new clothes and new shoes that squeezed my feet. I had never had real shoes before and I loved to wear them around even when I had my sleeping clothes on.

“That was the beginning of my adoption into the Gonzalez family. Sometime later I asked Senora how I got my name. It is not traditional. I remember that she smiled and told me that it was the custom in Cuba for the boy to take both the father and the mother’s last names to form his name. But she felt that the circumstances of my birth deserved a better name. I became Modesto Casilda Casanova which put my mother’s name first and a reference to my father’s exploits. After consulting with the magistrate they officially changed it to Modesto Casanova Casilda. That made clear I had no claim to the Gonzalez property. As I got older I was proud of my last name because it was different from that of the other children. Senor and Senora Gonzalez were always very kind to me. They gave me the same education as their other children. I excelled learning to speak languages other than Spanish and, in fact, quickly became proficient in English and German. I was tri-lingual by the time I was eight years old. I was also adept with mathematics and science.

“My ability was envied and later resented by my older siblings. By the time I was eleven I was regularly in fights with my two older brothers. I was capable when called on to defend myself. I took their thrashings in a good natured manner until one night when I was sleeping they stripped me, tied him naked to the bed and whipped me until I had welts over my butt and back. They told me to keep my mouth closed or they would do it again harder. I was afraid but refused to be intimidated by them.”

Wanting to change the direction of the conversation I stated the obvious, “So you were born on the plantation?”

“April 27, 1900 in old slave quarters. I told you that.”

“I do want to see where you were born.” My mind was racing. I remember thinking that I had met CeCe previously when I saw him in Havana on my first day. I remember thinking how much CeCe looked like young Mr. Chandler in his army uniform hanging on the wall in the upstairs hall in Ft. Myers. I thought but didn’t say that perhaps Chandler was that soldier that ran off after he got CeCe’s mother pregnant? Mr. Chandler would have said something about CeCe if he was aware. I asked CeCe, “How well do you know Mr. Chandler?”

“I met him once at a big party in Havana at the Copacabana Club. He told me I was a good dancer which I am. He is a good dancer, too. I remember he danced with his wife and another woman who was with us. He is a handsome man but about sixty years old, right?”

The conversation suggested that CeCe never asked Hector or Orlando if they knew about his parentage. I decided to ask Orlando if he knew if that woman who nursed Mr. Chandler was CeCe’s mother. I was sure he would never volunteer the information if not asked.

He stoically related, “Everyone seemed to push me off to someone. No one really loved me they just tolerated me.” By morning CeCe was ready to go to the plantation. We rode out of Trinidad four miles and as the horses were lathering we began to climb into the foothills. Twenty minutes later we came to gates similar to those at Hector and Orlando’s hacienda. A long sloping road ascended through white barked trees to the house perched on a ridge. It faced southward. This was a ranch not really a plantation. We slowed as we approached the house at the top of the plateau. A wiry old man in dirty white pants and a torn straw hat stood with the doors open as CeCe rode in. I followed. He began to call loudly: “Senora, Él está aquí.” Long moments passed before a large woman came to the door dressed in mourning black.

“La señora , que falleció ? CeCe said.

She did not answer him but stepped toward his horse. “Oh, Modesto, lo maravilloso para que usted venga a verme.”

“Si, Estoy feliz también” but his words seemed cool, if not cold. I wondered why we had come if he was going to be such a bastard. He dismounted and hugged into her big breasts. She held him along time. They seemed stuck together. Finally, they separated and he introduced me. She smiled. She began immediately firing Spanish questions at him. He could hardly answer before she would start again. I caught ‘noonday meal’ and a few other choice words. He told her he wanted to show me the house where he was born and where his mother died. The senora stepped back and her face soured. She called to the little man who had first greeted us. She ordered him to show the way.

We remounted our horses and followed. When we got close people from the hovels that served as housing stepped toward us. They waved and seemed to know exactly who he was. He acknowledged their greetings but said to me, “I do not know who these people are.” We visited the sister of his mother who was introduced to him for what he thought was the first time. After an hour we rode slowly back to the house to find a fat table spread in the cool, dark dining room. We joined two older women and one older man who were either friends or relatives of the senora. Senora invited us to rest after lunch but we declined and began our descent to Trinidad.

That night I asked CeCe if he ever heard who his father might be. He shook his head, “What does it matter? He was a bastard because he left my mother in shame. I am happy he came or I wouldn’t be here. I guess I miss my mother but I was so young. I only really know her because I have a little picture of her in a little frame on my bureau. It was taken about the time she had me.”

Two days passed slowly we sat for hours in the cantina on the main square. All it took was two beers and CeCe’s tongue loosened and more of his story came out. The nights cooled and we slept easily. Wherever CeCe wanted to take the conversations I let him. He was obviously concerned about the deplorable living conditions of the peasants. He couldn’t understand how the plantation owners could let them live in such squalor. He knew a great deal about the workers revolt in Russia and the unrest in Europe because of the Bolsheviks. He heard that there were similar movements in Mexico. I concurred that these beautiful people with their milk chocolate complexions and shiny black hair should expect more than they have.

Mid-afternoon of the second day we rode our horses to the dock in Casilda. We had decided to take the boat back to Havana. We wanted to know when the next mail boat was arriving. We found out that the mail boat usually came on Wednesday. CeCe told them that we wanted passage for two. He ordered them to come to the hotel and get us when the boat came in. He gave a boy some coins to assure that the message was clear. I said, “What about the horses?”

“The caballeros will bring them back.”

CeCe was pretty drunk but managed to get onto his horse without falling off on the other side. We galloped down the coddle stones clattering and scattering the people who walked in the road. The wind blew my hat off but it was caught by the strap that was under my neck. CeCe was yelling something and pulled up suddenly. I caught up to him. “Hold my horse!” He jumped off of his horse and went into a dark little kiosk. A few minutes later he emerged with a mess bag of food, beer and cigars. He lit a cigar before he mounted his horse. He snatched the reins from my hands. “Get your ass in gear we’re going to the beach.”

He mounted his little horse and led us through Trinidad and across the marsh. An hour later we rode over a small rise to find a beach stretching further in either direction than I had seen ever in New Jersey or Florida. We let the horse find their way along the water. There were a couple of fishermen but no one else. CeCe seemed lost in thought until he suddenly pulled up and dismounted. “Let’s swim.”

I tied my horse under a tree that shaded a large area right at the water’s edge. I pulled the saddle off and dried my horse’s back along with her blanket. She seemed happy to stand. CeCe with his shirt already off was sitting in the sand pulling off his boots. His muscled brown shoulders flexed as he pulled at his boots. I watched as he succeeded freeing one foot then the other. He laid his socks on top to dry in the soft moist breeze. He first dropped his chaps then his trousers and his underwear. He was a Greek sculpture. He was so perfect.

He turned to me still fully dressed. “Get undressed for God sakes.” He ran into the surf and I swam out toward him. He jumped at me as I got close to him. We wrestled and splashed and sobered up. After a while he said, “I could be this way all the time.”

“What way?”

“Like nature intended us to be. Naked and free. I just love feeling the water or the air touch me. I love when you jump on me skin to skin. I brought food so we can stay as long we want to.” We didn’t have blankets so we just stretched out in the sand. Occasionally we would dive back in the water to wash off. He unscrewed the lids and we drank warm beer. He spread corn and bean concoction on tortillas. They were delicious. The warm beer was getting to both of us. I stepped to the edge of the vegetation to piss. He stepped beside me and draped his arm over my shoulder as we pissed a stream together. He looked at me with his shiny brown eyes and smiled. I finished first and turned toward him and kissed him on the lips. I could feel his warm pee dripping on my foot. He kissed me back. Neither of us said anything. We sprang to the water to cool off.

We hadn’t been in the water five minutes and he said, “You want to hear more of the bastard’s story?”

“Sure, here or up on the beach?”

He didn’t answer and jumped on my shoulders and rode me ashore. We both fell to the sand. “I’ll tell you how I got to Havana. Some of this I told you, I think. I told you my older brothers beat me with belts one night. Right?”

“You did tell me that.”

“Even though there was never a mention of the beating about two weeks later Senor suggested that he and I ride to Havana. He told me he had some business and on the way we would visit his two younger brothers. He told me that they owned a sugar refinery near La Habana. He told me that Hector and Orlando lived in a large house overlooking the refinery not far from the harbor. Not three hours after we arrived Senor left me and went onto Havana. Hector put me to work in the hottest part of the plant counting the blocks of dried raw sugar that were being prepared for transit to the United States, Mexico and Europe. I was taught to carefully count and recount the blocks. The brothers kept meticulous records and expected me to do the same.”

“Did Senor come back?”

“No, he didn’t. I was never told what was going to happen. I started living with Hector and Orlando. I had my own room by the pool. The room had windows on all sides and was always cool assisted by two slowly twirling fans. I had a bed and an armoire for my few clothes. While I slept there most of my time was spent in the big house. I ate with them or I was fed in a small room off of the kitchen because several times a week they had men over to play card games. Large men smoking fat cigars. The smoke hung like lead in the room. I was scarce on those nights.

“When I wasn’t working which was most of the time I would sit beside the pool and read. The men had a large library of English and Spanish books. They prided themselves in their library but I rarely saw them with a book in their hands. They were happy that I wanted to read. One time with a pencil and paper I drew a small sketch of a gardenia. Hector came up as I had it lying in my lap. He exclaimed, ‘Boy don’t waste himself on sugar. You should become an artist.’ Several days later I was sitting in the bleached white house in a room occupied by this gigantic 50-year old man with wiry grey hair and uncut black beard who was their artist friend, Manuel Rayo. He was dressed in loose baggy pants and a dirty flowered shirt with only one button. The shirt was inadequate to cover the man’s gullet. He was sketching a vase, an orange and a revolver. He told me to do the same.

I drew intently with sweaty hands wondering what the man would think. I worked quietly scratching the pencil across the pad for thirty minutes. He abruptly reached over and snatched the pad away from me. I watched his eyes and I was shaking. He barked, ‘Boy, hacer esto.’ With bold strokes he corrected the perspective and handed it back. He got up and instructed me to go into another room and stand before the pad on the easel. I was maybe fourteen. He strained to move his ponderous weight off of his stool. There on a small platform was a black man barely clothed. I didn’t speak to Senor Rayo just start drawing. I had never drawn a person but I made a reasonable attempt. I became frustrated and walked over to Rayo and watched as he brushed the charcoal in bold flowing strokes. I watched, didn’t speak and returned to my easel feeling very inferior. Later Rayo stood beside me and said, “Maldita sea bueno, para una mierda bebé.” We met every Tuesday and then every Tuesday and Thursday for a long time. He dropped dead one day. Will you let me draw you when we get back to Havana?”

 

“Like this?”

“Yes, just as God made you.’

“OK with me. But you look so much better than I do. Why would you want to draw me?

“I like you. And I only draw what I like.”

“Where will we do it, by the pool?”

“We’ll see. I don’t draw as much as I used to. Too busy lifting weights.”

“You look fantastic. Why work out?”

“Let me assure you I did not look like this when I came to be with Hector and Orlando.

Having seen the black man at Rayo’s made me realize that I wanted to be muscular. I had never learned to swim so shortly after my first drawing lesson I was invited to swim with his Hector. I told him I did not know how. He was irritated but set about teaching me. I learned quickly and swam many laps to build up my strength. I requested that we buy some weights to lift. Hector agreed and felt he could benefit from the weights. That was five years ago.”

The sun was setting and we sat there in the warm breeze of the early evening. I grabbed CeCe’s hand and pulled him toward me into a long kiss. He was totally into it. I could feel him dick pushing against my stomach. With my left hand I reached for him and slowly stroked. He was totally at ease with my action. It was almost dark when we dressed and mounted for the ride back to town. We didn’t speak much more just enjoyed each other’s company.

The boat trip around the west end of the island took twenty-four hours. We had a cramped little space to store our bags and spent most of our time watching first for Cienfeugos; then Nueva Geona; stopping at La Coloma to leave the mail for Pinar del Rio. The last stop before Havana was La Bajada. The Atlantic side of the island was much rougher than the south side. We were both happy to see the vis-à-vis waiting at the pier.

Something was happening between us that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. We kept acting as if our friendship was natural. I was aware that CeCe’s postponed surprise birthday was soon. Orlando told me of a celebration planned at the Gardenia Club. I was sworn to secrecy. That was ridiculous because not thirty minutes after I returned to the pool for a swim CeCe said. “Did he tell you about my surprise party?”

I sheepishly grinned. “Yes, how did you know?”

“It’s a surprise party every year. The only surprise is who comes. I love it though. You are coming aren’t you?”

“Why would you ask? I would not miss it.”

“Can you dance the Charleston? Rumba? Cha Cha?”

“OK, but not great. The Charleston, I’m pretty good. But the others less so.”

“Let me teach you.”

“Who will be the woman?”

“I will be. I learned all the parts.”

“Yeah, but we can’t dance together in public.”

With a straight face he said, “Why not?” I pushed him fully dressed into the pool. I took off my shoes and joined him. After dumping our wet clothes he said, “My dancing is a pretty good story. Sit your ass over there.” I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me as did he.

CeCe pulled the chase lounger around to face me. He said, “The story of my surprise birthday party got started in a funny way. I had been with Hector and Orlando perhaps seven or eight months but they had never taken me into Havana. I asked regularly and they kept saying they were too busy or gave some other excuse. The summer was coming to an end and it seemed like a logical time for me to return to the ranch. Senor Gonzalez had stopped by several times. Instead of suggesting I go home with him he suggested it would be better if I stayed and attended the Academy of St. Ignacios to study with the Jesuit priests. It was on that trip that the decision was made for the four of us to go to Havana. I could not believe the beauty of the Gardenia Club. The music from the orchestra was sweet and melodious. The people were grand. Most were more formally dressed up than we were. I declared that the next time we came we would be more appropriately dressed. They laughed. I watched the glamorous men and women glide to the waltzes, then rumba and cha cha. I declared to Hector that I wanted to learn all the dances right then. Orlando looked at Hector and said “We will teach him the right way.”

That started almost two years of lessons. Hector had a friend named Helga. She with various partners taught the three of us. We learned to dance all the popular dances. I learned to dance forward and backward with equal ease because sometimes we didn’t have women partners. Hector is also good dancing in both positions. I got my own tuxedo and dancing shoes as Christmas gifts that year and got to wear them for the first time on New Years Eve in 1917. We went out dancing with escorts that Helga arranged. I decided that night I wanted to go to the Copa to celebrate my seventeenth birthday the following April. I never heard a word about that request until they surprised me with whole family including Senor and Senora Gonzalez, one sister and my brothers along with the uncles and some of their poker friends. We took a front table at the Copacabana. When it came time I asked my sister to dance. The evening flew by and I danced with one woman after another including Senora who was in awe of me. I looked stunning dressed in my tuxedo and dancing like a professional. Everyone watched me and I loved it.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of CeCe’s wide set brown eyes and cherubic smile. The only part of him a little out of proportion was his ample nose which bothered him. But it didn’t bother me. Starting that night he taught me to dance all the dances and he was a wonderful, patient teacher. I loved holding him but I concentrated so I could hold my own at the party. The party night came and I wore a tux that Orlando had altered for me. The setting was glorious with men and women dancing, laughing, and enjoying the ambience of the world famous club. CeCe danced with many women. He floated as he waltzed, cha cha cha’ed, rumba’ed, or did the Charleston. We fell into bed well after midnight.

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