Dad goes, I really don’t know if I will keep the shop. I’ll hope to sell it, but who knows?” She shrugged.
“Your father is Cuban?”
“Yes, he is. Did he tell you that?”
“Every now and then I come into the store with my gentleman friend and the two of them rattle on about cigars. Like every Cuban I have ever met, along with being incredibly courtly, he said there is no cigar tobacco like Cuban.”
“God’s honest truth.” She thought for a moment. “Another reason why there are hardly any start-up tobacco companies. Too hard to learn about it and too hard to grow. People have no idea.”
“That I do know,” said Sister. “I remember when I was a kid we’d drive down to Charleston, passing huge fields of tobacco.”
“Even today when they’ll come along and cut the entire plant, it’s not easy,” said Elizabeta. “Someone still has to go out when the plant blooms and pick off the buds. It’s sticky. The best of the best still do everything by hand. Take the top leaves first, watch the leaves change color, know when to pick and throw out the bottom sand lugs. Know whether to air cure, flue cure, all that stuff. That’s why you pay a pretty penny for a premium cigarette. But it tastes like nothing else. There is no cheap way to grow and harvest good tobacco, even with so-called modern improvements.”
“Who will do the field work?”
She raised then dropped her shoulders. “Not white people, I can tell you that. The only white people I ever see in a tobacco field are the people who own it, and a lot of them have to work it. The Mexicans smoke cigarettes, but they don’t have a culture of growing tobacco like the U.S. used to have. The black folks that knew so much, well, most of them have passed on and a world of knowledge passed with them.”
“We’ve lost years of hard-earned knowledge in so many fields,” Sister said. She, too, felt the loss of the old people and the old ways. “Everyone is too good for fieldwork now. Hell, I cut my own hay. Have help baling it, but I get out there and toss those bales. Keeps a person strong and healthy. It’s a lot less expensive than a cabinet full of pills and a trip to the doctor every time you get an ache.”
“Dad says that, too. He says everyone is scared of their own body.”
Both women laughed.
Sister returned to the topic of fascination for both women. “Since both murder victims were Cuban or second-generation Cuban, they might have been mixed up in some anti-Castro group. I mean, have you thought maybe it’s political?”
“Could be, or maybe they just pissed somebody off.” The pretty woman shrugged.
Sister paused. “It is strange. I was looking up stuff on the Internet, never a good idea. I waste so much time online, but I was shocked to find that since our country has demolished its tobacco industry the world’s largest tobacco grower is China. The Turks grow a lot, as does Brazil.”
“Inferior. All inferior. And if you really want to pass out, smoke an Egyptian cigarette. My God, the worst. Their most popular brand, Cleopatra, could kill a cow. If Cleo came back from the dead, she should throw asps at the manufacturers.”
Sister laughed at the vision of a resurrected queen tossing snakes in a cigarette factory. She looked out the large windows.
“Sky’s getting dark again. Well, I’d better head home. Thank you for your time.”
They both stood up and the woman asked, “You said you come in with your boyfriend?”
“Gray Lorillard.”
“The black fellow with the silver moustache? He’s so handsome he could be a model.”
“Please don’t tell him that.” Sister spontaneously hugged the woman, as it had been such a pleasant visit.
As she headed home, she mused about how her parents would have been shocked that she had just hugged someone she barely knew. Well, a lot of things would have shocked Mom and Dad, but they would have adjusted.
She thought, too, how strange that the equine business bounced
“Your father is Cuban?”
“Yes, he is. Did he tell you that?”
“Every now and then I come into the store with my gentleman friend and the two of them rattle on about cigars. Like every Cuban I have ever met, along with being incredibly courtly, he said there is no cigar tobacco like Cuban.”
“God’s honest truth.” She thought for a moment. “Another reason why there are hardly any start-up tobacco companies. Too hard to learn about it and too hard to grow. People have no idea.”
“That I do know,” said Sister. “I remember when I was a kid we’d drive down to Charleston, passing huge fields of tobacco.”
“Even today when they’ll come along and cut the entire plant, it’s not easy,” said Elizabeta. “Someone still has to go out when the plant blooms and pick off the buds. It’s sticky. The best of the best still do everything by hand. Take the top leaves first, watch the leaves change color, know when to pick and throw out the bottom sand lugs. Know whether to air cure, flue cure, all that stuff. That’s why you pay a pretty penny for a premium cigarette. But it tastes like nothing else. There is no cheap way to grow and harvest good tobacco, even with so-called modern improvements.”
“Who will do the field work?”
She raised then dropped her shoulders. “Not white people, I can tell you that. The only white people I ever see in a tobacco field are the people who own it, and a lot of them have to work it. The Mexicans smoke cigarettes, but they don’t have a culture of growing tobacco like the U.S. used to have. The black folks that knew so much, well, most of them have passed on and a world of knowledge passed with them.”
“We’ve lost years of hard-earned knowledge in so many fields,” Sister said. She, too, felt the loss of the old people and the old ways. “Everyone is too good for fieldwork now. Hell, I cut my own hay. Have help baling it, but I get out there and toss those bales. Keeps a person strong and healthy. It’s a lot less expensive than a cabinet full of pills and a trip to the doctor every time you get an ache.”
“Dad says that, too. He says everyone is scared of their own body.”
Both women laughed.
Sister returned to the topic of fascination for both women. “Since both murder victims were Cuban or second-generation Cuban, they might have been mixed up in some anti-Castro group. I mean, have you thought maybe it’s political?”
“Could be, or maybe they just pissed somebody off.” The pretty woman shrugged.
Sister paused. “It is strange. I was looking up stuff on the Internet, never a good idea. I waste so much time online, but I was shocked to find that since our country has demolished its tobacco industry the world’s largest tobacco grower is China. The Turks grow a lot, as does Brazil.”
“Inferior. All inferior. And if you really want to pass out, smoke an Egyptian cigarette. My God, the worst. Their most popular brand, Cleopatra, could kill a cow. If Cleo came back from the dead, she should throw asps at the manufacturers.”
Sister laughed at the vision of a resurrected queen tossing snakes in a cigarette factory. She looked out the large windows.
“Sky’s getting dark again. Well, I’d better head home. Thank you for your time.”
They both stood up and the woman asked, “You said you come in with your boyfriend?”
“Gray Lorillard.”
“The black fellow with the silver moustache? He’s so handsome he could be a model.”
“Please don’t tell him that.” Sister spontaneously hugged the woman, as it had been such a pleasant visit.
As she headed home, she mused about how her parents would have been shocked that she had just hugged someone she barely knew. Well, a lot of things would have shocked Mom and Dad, but they would have adjusted.
She thought, too, how strange that the equine business bounced
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