The Firefly Letters (8 page)

After a supper of boiled beans and rice,

Cecilia reveals that she has brought

a gift of butter and cake from Elena's home.

We eat with pleasure

in these peaceful surroundings

that make me feel like a shepherdess

in some ancient story of wisdom or magic.

There is no evening in the tropics.

Night simply drapes itself over the day

as if someone had lowered a curtain.

The sky glitters and moves,

filled with shooting stars and fireflies.

Out here, no one tries to catch

the soaring insects.

The
cocuyos
drift so high

that they seem to live in heaven,

like stars.

Blue doves and green parrots

surround us in the mornings.

Children play games at our feet.

This home is friendly and restful,

so why am I tired?

I cough until my lungs bleed,

making me wonder if the baby in my belly

can feel scared too, and sad — is the baby

aware of my reluctance to leave

this tranquil farm

and return to the life of a slave

at the mill,

translating for American engineers

as they shout at me in English

and I shout at others in a mixture of Spanish

and several African languages,

as if the entire world can be found

trapped inside one Cuban sugar mill

and trapped inside

my own voice?

I ask Cecilia to walk with me

toward the sound of drums.

We find ourselves following a long trail

to a distant plantation, where slaves dance

in front of the windowless barracoons

where they must sleep at night

in chains, behind locked doors.

I sketch the dancers

until an overseer notices me

and seizes my notebook

and tears out the pages.

He uses his whip to end the dance.

He chases me away, with Cecilia

at my side, coughing and weeping.

I am ready to leave Cuba,

but how can I go — how can I abandon

this sick girl who has worked so hard

to help me understand

this beautiful island

with its hideous ways?

When I am sent to fetch my wife

and the foreign lady

from the remote farm

where they have been staying,

I notice that Cecilia looks ill,

and I begin to wonder

if she will live long enough

to be a mother to our child.

We arrive in the city

under stars.

Cecilia's head is uncovered,

and I feel angry

because perhaps my wife

has been weakened

by roaming with a foreigner,

her head unprotected,

exposed to the rays

of Cuba's moon.

They are back!

Oh, how I wish I could have gone

with them out to the countryside.

I have missed them, and I have missed

the excitement of Fredrika's stories

about adventures in faraway places.

I have missed seeing her sketchbook

filled with unfamiliar views

of this island where I have lived

all my life,

without seeing much at all

beyond the four walls

of my own room.

I have even missed Cecilia,

with her strong spirit

and the way she whispers

a comforting lullaby

to the restless baby

as it kicks and rolls

inside her huge belly.

I don't know how or why

it happened,

but somehow

I have begun

to think of Cecilia

as my best friend.

I have decided to postpone

my departure from Cuba.

I cannot bear to think of leaving

until I feel certain

that I can somehow

offer help to Cecilia

and Beni

and their baby.

For now, there is the delightful prospect

of watching as freed slaves dance

to raise money

for helping orphans

of all colors.

Elena and Cecilia are both so excited—

they refer to the upcoming charity dance

as the Ball of Free Blacks.

They tell me that even the wealthiest nobles

attend the dance, and donate money

to help freed slaves

feed orphans.