dead. And she’s taking the kids with her.”
“If it were me, I’d cut her chocha.”
Sadly people started to look at Ernesto with anger. For the whole of the next day, Graciela was nowhere to be seen. Her house
became like a tourist attraction. People walked past it to gawk, even if it took them blocks out of their way. But neither
she nor her children were seen. The doors and windows remained closed. Imperio and I stood across the street, unsure of what
to do.
“What if something terrible has happened in there?” I said.
“Well,” Imperio said, her eyes on the closed windows, “it would not be the first time that an unfaithful wife in Palmagria
found herself at the pointy end of a kitchen knife. Por Dios, before the Revolution, any other man in this town would have
handled this situation with a swift and simple action. He would have confronted the man who brought shame on the mother of
his children and shot him dead.”
“Ruining many lives in the process,” I said. “Most of all his own.”
“El honor es el honor,” Imperio said. “What do we have if we don’t have our honor?”
As we walked away, I thought that any other man would also have hunted Mario down and cut his throat for speaking in front
of others what was, in all honesty, none of his business. I was sure Imperio had had the same thought, so there was no need
to mention it. I felt just awful for Imperio.
Fortunately Ernesto was not the type to take someone’s life with his own hands. And after the Revolution he had another choice.
The day after his much discussed encounter with Mario, Ernesto went to the courthouse and filled out countless complicated
legal forms requesting an exit visa to the United States.
“Only to discover,” Silvia, a clerk at the courthouse told us, “that a married man is under no circumstances allowed to leave
the country without his children.”
That was news to me. There was still so much we didn’t know. The constitution was being rewritten daily. Something that was
legal one day was illegal the next. And sometimes certain things would become legal again all of a sudden, and so on. But
what Silvia said was true and would remain so.
“The Revolution is not about to take on a traitor’s unwanted family,” Silvia explained to me patiently, as if this made perfect
sense to her and should to all others.
*
A FTER A TIME ALL FLIGHTS from Cuba to the United States were canceled and people became frantic to reach the United States any way they could, through
Mexico, Panama, Venezuela, even Spain. They were like rats jumping off a sinking ship. In Palmagria, for those who dared to
fill out an application to emigrate, there were very specific steps to follow, which was good in a country where everything
had been turned upside down. It was also very public.
The first thing a family had to do was request an exit visa. That included complicated paperwork that needed to be overseen
by a lawyer or at least a notary public. This would be followed by a thorough inventory of all their possessions.
Right after her inventory, my friend Cuca Soto had been so nervous that we took her to Graciela’s to get her nails done, hoping
it would calm her down. But her hand was shaking so much that Imperio had to go first. Cuca sat in a chair far from any door
or window to the street.
“When I first went in to file, they treated me like I was trash,” she said. “The immigration officials looked at me—and all
the others in line—as if we were the worst people in the world. They made it seem like leaving the country was the same as
abandoning a baby at the church. They didn’t try to talk me out of it, but I could feel it in my bones that from that moment
on, I was despicable in their eyes.”
As soon as the application was filed, three military guards showed up at her doorstep with a pad in carbon triplicate.
“They took the whole day to count and write down every piece of
“If it were me, I’d cut her chocha.”
Sadly people started to look at Ernesto with anger. For the whole of the next day, Graciela was nowhere to be seen. Her house
became like a tourist attraction. People walked past it to gawk, even if it took them blocks out of their way. But neither
she nor her children were seen. The doors and windows remained closed. Imperio and I stood across the street, unsure of what
to do.
“What if something terrible has happened in there?” I said.
“Well,” Imperio said, her eyes on the closed windows, “it would not be the first time that an unfaithful wife in Palmagria
found herself at the pointy end of a kitchen knife. Por Dios, before the Revolution, any other man in this town would have
handled this situation with a swift and simple action. He would have confronted the man who brought shame on the mother of
his children and shot him dead.”
“Ruining many lives in the process,” I said. “Most of all his own.”
“El honor es el honor,” Imperio said. “What do we have if we don’t have our honor?”
As we walked away, I thought that any other man would also have hunted Mario down and cut his throat for speaking in front
of others what was, in all honesty, none of his business. I was sure Imperio had had the same thought, so there was no need
to mention it. I felt just awful for Imperio.
Fortunately Ernesto was not the type to take someone’s life with his own hands. And after the Revolution he had another choice.
The day after his much discussed encounter with Mario, Ernesto went to the courthouse and filled out countless complicated
legal forms requesting an exit visa to the United States.
“Only to discover,” Silvia, a clerk at the courthouse told us, “that a married man is under no circumstances allowed to leave
the country without his children.”
That was news to me. There was still so much we didn’t know. The constitution was being rewritten daily. Something that was
legal one day was illegal the next. And sometimes certain things would become legal again all of a sudden, and so on. But
what Silvia said was true and would remain so.
“The Revolution is not about to take on a traitor’s unwanted family,” Silvia explained to me patiently, as if this made perfect
sense to her and should to all others.
*
A FTER A TIME ALL FLIGHTS from Cuba to the United States were canceled and people became frantic to reach the United States any way they could, through
Mexico, Panama, Venezuela, even Spain. They were like rats jumping off a sinking ship. In Palmagria, for those who dared to
fill out an application to emigrate, there were very specific steps to follow, which was good in a country where everything
had been turned upside down. It was also very public.
The first thing a family had to do was request an exit visa. That included complicated paperwork that needed to be overseen
by a lawyer or at least a notary public. This would be followed by a thorough inventory of all their possessions.
Right after her inventory, my friend Cuca Soto had been so nervous that we took her to Graciela’s to get her nails done, hoping
it would calm her down. But her hand was shaking so much that Imperio had to go first. Cuca sat in a chair far from any door
or window to the street.
“When I first went in to file, they treated me like I was trash,” she said. “The immigration officials looked at me—and all
the others in line—as if we were the worst people in the world. They made it seem like leaving the country was the same as
abandoning a baby at the church. They didn’t try to talk me out of it, but I could feel it in my bones that from that moment
on, I was despicable in their eyes.”
As soon as the application was filed, three military guards showed up at her doorstep with a pad in carbon triplicate.
“They took the whole day to count and write down every piece of
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