Tomorrow They Will Kiss (6 page)

Seconds later Ernesto, in his shiny brown suit, knocked lightly at her door. It opened just wide enough to let him in. It
was like a moment slowed down in time as the crack of darkness inside the house opened wider, just wide enough to swallow
him. Then, quickly, it closed again. Can you imagine a more horrendous wedding reception? It was talked about for weeks.

Imagínate. But that was not to be the most dramatic episode in Graciela’s life. Oh no. The woman we see every day in Leticia’s
yellow van, the one who rides with the rest of us decent ladies, her knees demurely pressed together, the one who consoles
Berta when she is in too much pain to walk, the one who immediately forgives Raquel whenever she babbles on about her husband
and, with little regard for our feelings, insists on reminding us of how horrible everything is back in Cuba—she may seem
like one of the girls now, but it wasn’t always like that.

S
ome of the girls in the factory
say that I have ice water in my veins. That I don’t have feelings. That there’s a calculator where my heart ought to be.
A calculator! I shit on them. Por Dios! I consider myself practical, sensible, and realistic. That’s the way I am, and if
you don’t like it, don’t come around. Don’t come crying to me.

“Stop rubbing your damn legs and whimpering,” I said to Berta one morning after she kept us waiting fifteen minutes. “If you’re
as sick as you say you are, go see a doctor.” Graciela looked at me like I had just slapped the old woman across the face.
But how much is a person expected to take? How much? Maybe I see things much more clearly than others. If you ask me a question,
if you say to me, “Imperio, what do you think of such and such?” I’ll tell you the truth. My truth. If Berta’s looking for
someone to put an umbrella into the bitter cocktail that is her life, she can go to someone else. I don’t make ugly things
pretty. I don’t put sugar in my coffee, I don’t beat around the bush, but I do expect her to be ready when the van arrives
and to not take forever getting in and out. For me a situation is either black or white. And that’s the way I like it. But
Graciela defends her. Defends her! Por Dios! Graciela has never been reasonable. Not now in Union City, and not back in Palmagria.
She has always let her heart, and not her brain, make all the decisions. She sees herself as romantic, soft, and caring. An
innocent. Innocent my ass. I think she’s an idiot. Listen, if you’re stupid enough to let your heart rule your life, then
heartache is sure to follow. Graciela should have known better, particularly in Palmagria.

There’s no point describing the beaches and the palm trees and the sunsets. You go to any tropical island and you’re going
to find just that. So what?

Palmagria was a very small town that followed very specific rules. If you grew up there, as Graciela did, you knew that from
the cradle. If you came to visit, you learned soon enough. Usually the hard way. There was no gray in Palmagria, and the rules
were tougher on women. I’m not saying that was good or bad; it was the way it was. Girls who couldn’t live by those rules
moved to La Habana. It was only a few hours away by bus, but as far as the people of Palmagria were concerned, it was on another
continent.

In La Habana there were no rules. People did what they wished without worrying about what others thought. In La Habana women
could wear two- piece bathing suits at the beach, live in their own apartments, dye their hair different colors, have love
affairs with married men, or black men, even other women if they wished. But they couldn’t do such things in Palmagria.

Por Dios! If a woman moved to La Habana for some other reasons, to further her education or just to enjoy a different way
of life, people back in Palmagria still whispered that she went away to be a lesbiana or a prostituta. That’s why the very
few who left, and I can count them on one hand, never returned, not even for visits.

Graciela should have left as soon as she could and never come back. She never fit in. She had different ideas, and the more
she tried to live like the rest of us, the crazier she got.

At first, after that ridiculous wedding to that unfortunate man, everything seemed to be going reasonably well. Much better
than anyone expected. Certainly much better than I ever thought possible. Ernesto, the poor fool she married, was a popular
teacher, but not with me. I always found him to be irritatingly high- minded, with his thick books and classical music, and
that wife of his, Josefa, who was boring as dust. As dust! May she rest in peace.

Caridad suggested that maybe it had done Graciela good to finally get out of her parents’ house, which was more like a battlefield.
Her father, Guillermo, was a weak man, so weak that Graciela’s mother, Irma, had been disgraced by countless miscarriages.
From what I’ve heard, time and again she got pregnant and then lost the baby. People said that “Guillermo’s glue didn’t stick,”
that “his eggs were runny.” So when Graciela was finally born, it had been something of a miracle. Well aware of that, Graciela
had tried to rule in that house from the start. But as weak- willed and puny- spermed as her father was, her mother was strong.
Por Dios, a woman who would have that many bloody incidents and still try again and again had to be strong. But Graciela was
even stronger. Irma’s struggles to make something decent out of her only daughter were legend in Palmagria. Legend! And Graciela
had disappointed her to the very end. She married a widower. Even if it was the distinguished Profesor de la Cruz, who could
blame her parents for not attending the wedding? Not me. It must have been clear to Irma that Ernesto was just a slightly
more successful and respected version of her gutless husband. Guillermo worked his entire life at la papelería, the stationery
store, for practically no money simply because he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Who would want that for their daughter?
Not me.

If you ask me, that wedding never should have happened. But regardless of what I thought, marry they did. The newlyweds moved
into Ernesto’s house near the school, definitely a much nicer neighborhood than where Graciela had lived before.

In her new home, Graciela had to make do with whatever had been left there by Josefa, because at that time, the stores were
completely empty. The United States had imposed some sort of an embargo on us, which we didn’t take very seriously at first.
Dios mío! Most of us didn’t even know what an embargo was. But we learned fast when we started to feel the lack of everything.
People called it El Bloqueo, the blockade, because embargo was just too pretty a word for what was really going on. It made
me furious to walk by stores that used to bulge with window displays and see them totally empty, nothing but cobwebs and dust.
And on those rare occasions when eggs, bread, or milk came in, lines formed around the block and fistfights broke out. Stupid,
desperate people fought each other in the streets just to get a better place in line. They bloodied each other over a can
of beans.

Graciela was like a rock through all this. She developed a quiet determination I had never seen before. She was like another
person, this married version of Graciela. Gone were the flirting eyes, the annoying and embarrassing desperation she displayed
whenever men were around. I watched her carefully. I had a hard time believing that a woman could change just like that.

We stopped to chat with her and Ernesto after a late showing of
Peyton Place
at the Cine Carreta. It was a very warm night, and it had been even warmer inside the theater, where the idiots in the balcony
insisted on treating the movie like pornography. They shouted dirty words whenever something even remotely sexy appeared on
the screen.

Caridad and Salud were with us that night, and after the movie the six of us lingered at the corner just for a moment. I had
seen Ernesto and Josefa under similar circumstances so many times over the years that it felt a bit odd to see Graciela standing
in her place. Ernesto had his arm around her, and they looked like any other couple. Don’t ask me why, but I got the feeling
that not all was as it seemed. The movie, which had been seen all over the world but had just reached Palmagria, was all anyone
could talk about for weeks.

“I loved all of Lana Turner’s dresses. So elegant,” Graciela said.

“Yes,” Ernesto said, “of all the American stars she’s my favorite. Her voice is so unique.” Graciela nodded her head as he
spoke, completely agreeing with every syllable.

“You could hear her voice over all the shouting?” I asked, and Graciela laughed. But she laughed like she was doing me a favor,
which was interesting because I didn’t mean for my comment to be funny.

And then Mario said, “I liked the teenage girl with the big tits.” I could have killed him.

“Mario,” Graciela said, “you belong up in the balcony with the bad boys.”

And then she looked at Ernesto and wrinkled her nose at him, and he kissed her right on the tip of her nose.

“Where do you think I found him?” I said, but no one was listening, they were so impressed by the newlyweds’ affection. I
was thinking, This old fool doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. I mean, just one look said it all. He was short, balding,
thick glasses, and bland in every way. And say what you will, at that time Graciela was luscious. That’s the only word for
it.

We said good night and watched for a moment as Ernesto and Graciela walked away, arms around each other.

Caridad and Salud walked with us in silence for a while.

“Graciela seems different,” Salud said. “More calm.”

Mario started to whistle the music from the movie.

“Marriage changes a girl,” Caridad said.

“Marriage should,” I said. But I wasn’t convinced.

The next afternoon I paid Graciela a little visit. She didn’t seem surprised to see me and welcomed me with open arms. And
it was then that I saw what a ridiculous effort she was making to be a good wife. But it almost seemed like an impersonation
of a good wife. I knew she was making a grave mistake when I noticed that she had taken down all photos of Josefa and put
them away. She had taken them right off the wall. All that remained were the nails sticking out. There would be no flowers
for the former mistress of the house either, and no visits to the cemetery. Not at Christmas, Easter, or any of the anniversaries.
Josefa was dead and buried, and that’s the way Graciela wanted her.

Graciela had given Josefa’s old pots and pans a good washing and traded bedsheets with her mother. I couldn’t exactly fault
her for refusing to conceive her children on a dead woman’s bedding.

She seemed to have at last settled into a comfortable life. She had finally become one of us, or so I thought. I continued
to have my doubts.

She gave birth to two boys in short order. The first she named Ernestico, after his father, the second, Manolito, after a
famous bullfighter. She seemed determined to make her marriage work, which is what baffled and enraged all of us later on,
after the truth was revealed, after the scandal started, after doors began to slam in her face. In her face!

*

E
RNESTO DIDN’T MAKE A LOT OF MONEY,
and Graciela wanted things. But things were scarce and the black market was expensive. So she set herself up as a manicurist
and was very successful at it, because she rendered the best Cuban half- moons in town. The Cuban half- moon was a pearly-
colored crescent painted with precision exactly where the nail met the cuticle. Graciela was masterful at it, an artist. When
she did our nails it looked as if all our fingers were smiling. The women who had been doing our nails for years (sloppy,
uneven edges, smudges) were left without their best clients. Graciela dealt with their resentment by ignoring them. She opened
her door wide for business, and what could we do? We had to support her, and besides she was absolutely the best.

It soon became very fashionable to have Graciela Altamira de la Cruz do your nails once a week. Word spread and women came
from as far as Niquero and Bayamo. And Graciela, who had always wanted to direct fashion and set trends, at last had all the
snooty, upper- class girls of Palmagria at her fingertips.

Every Wednesday afternoon, while our husbands and children slept the siesta, you could find a group of us younger wives reading
Graciela’s fashion magazines and blowing on our newly lacquered nails; telling stories, sharing gossip, and dreaming out loud.
This was our time. We sat around Graciela’s dining room table in the cool darkness of her house while outside the sunshine
raged or rain poured down. Caridad and I had started smoking mentholated cigarettes, which Caridad made by putting a handful
of regular cigarettes into a glass jar with a dab of Vicks VapoRub ointment on the lid and sealing it tight for a week. We
smoked without our husbands’ consent, and listened to the latest records. We were crazy for the heartbreakingly romantic boleros
by Los Zafiros and Luisa María Güell. It was at that dining room table that new fads were discussed, hemlines were lifted
or dropped, colors and patterns adopted or discarded.

Everything in Graciela’s life seemed ideal from the outside. Por Dios, how was it that none of us took even a moment to notice
that Graciela, hunched over finger after finger, quietly trimming cuticles and outlining those perfect half- moons with the
precision of a surgeon, for nothing but a few precious coins, was slowly losing her mind?

Yes, it must have been insanity. Insanity! Complete and absolute madness. What else would drive a woman in her position, in
a town like Palmagria, to do what she did?

People blame the Revolution for every crazy thing that happened back then because people always need to find something to
blame. After the Revolution, our town changed. As if everyone had just lost their mind. And who wouldn’t have? Por Dios, who
suffered a bigger blow than Palmagria?

The entire town, except for a few—and we all know who they were—had been against Batista and had blindly,
blindly,
done everything imaginable to put Castro in power.