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The Discretion of the Monteros 1
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I AM THE sister that makes the food. I am the practical one. I have a small café named Dolores, after me, although everyone calls me Lola. It is near Plaza Valdés, not far down Calle Santa Monica. Most women in our old set would not have run a café, much less cook in their own homes, but I am a Montero, and our heritage shows no matter what we do. We have Catalonian blood from both sides. Yes, but you’re showing your Versailles roots, those silly women would chide, as if that were not as good as being from old Matanzas. No matter.
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We were not afraid of work and remembered well that Abuelo started in a small shack on a deserted beach. Although Mami came with more blood and money than Papi, she did not believe that women should be useless. She made sure all three of us girls learned to cook on our large stove at home. A lady needed to know how to make meals that please a man, she insisted, even if the lady is not expected to do more than supervise their preparation.
At first Chita, our middle sister, scolded me for pursuing what she called a common course. She taunted me with the venerated name of Lola Cruz, saying I was bringing shame to that gracious first lady of Matanzas (who Mami said I was named after). Then one morning, while we were drinking delicious Cubano coffee in the courtyard of our family home, Rosita, née Rosalba and our oldest, pointed out that I did what I wanted when I went to Havana with money that my José knew nothing about. That shut up Chita for a while.
What freedom my café brought. Soon my sisters wanted some too. Rosita set up a sewing room to make dresses in the back of her house. She used to be taken in private cars to Havana to fit the latest fashions on ladies who imported bolts of fabric from Paris and Madrid. Of course, due to the circumstances of the Revolution, most of her patrons went across the water. She stayed in town and let out seams and altered sleeve lengths or, on rare occasions, went to Havana about a dress to be made from a cherished piece of European cloth.
Chita, the bossy one, was also the stylish one with the beauty salon. She used to go with the very rich to Miami or the Keys to lounge and redo their hair every day because of the humidity. After the change, it was the Saturday night dancers and the Sunday morning worshippers with their twittering and little dramas that kept alive her two-dryer shop. She was a staunch comrade who never uttered a word against El Líder, but I know she missed the bright lights and fast cars she knew across the water.
Together we were known as the Sisters Montero in certain circles in the city. Our family owned a wonderful home in the Versalles neighborhood. Everyone called it the Montero House. It reflected our parents’ prominence. Papi had the kind of luck in business that opened many doors and encouraged men to find new respect for a family name. Mami had the Catalonian looks, manners, and ease with money that furthered the Montero interests. We had advantages as their daughters.
My little brother, Tomás, was a lovely afterthought in our family. We had already left childhood behind when he appeared, and I had been the youngest for so long that he seemed more like my own child rather than a baby brother. We all practiced motherhood on our sweet, mischievous boy. We never squabbled with him as we did among ourselves. Rather, his injuries at our hands arose mostly from our fierce battles to take charge of him. Sometimes our poor boy was pulled in two directions by determined sister-mothers. He learned to hide until our rages were spent.
We all knew that the Russians had arrived to join in the defense of our beautiful island, but the glory of the actual revolution quickly dimmed for us. Even as most of our crowd deserted the island with only the clothes on their backs and whatever they could hide beneath their girdles and in their hair, we continued to enjoy certain privileges. Then our Tomasito was taken at the end of summer. The night it happened, Selena, his best friend since childhood and the daughter of a renowned officer of the second revolutionary war, stumbled into my café, bruised and crying. I quickly shooed out the neighbors that had lingered over coffee and dominoes and locked the door tight. She told a fractured tale of her evening with Tomasito on the Malecon and the moment when a truck full of militiamen dragged him off. It departed with Tomasito inside and Selena running and tripping behind. She blurted that Comrade Castro was no good for the Revolution. I couldn’t even think such a thought without looking over my shoulder.
Immediately we launched inquiries but could learn nothing of Tomasito’s whereabouts or the origins of the mysterious truckload of militiamen. Our investigation had to be discreet, as everyone knew Tomasito was indeed involved with comrades whom he called patriots but whom many others called worms. Still, we had connections, but José, my husband in the army, couldn’t find any official mention of our brother’s location. Neither could Ramón, Rosita’s milquetoast husband who was a deputy in the local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. We feared the most sinister forces, since the CDRs usually trumpeted the capture of citizens whom they considered traitors. The administration went so far as to televise the executions of prisoners “against the wall” as an example to the rest of us. The week before, one of his close childhood friends starred in one of their ghastly programs.
For five days after the disappearance of Tomasito, I waited for my sisters with my back to the door of my café. Above my head was the sign that José painted in bright pink with viney green letters spelling out my name. At the top of the D was a white rose for Rosita, and underneath the S sat a conch shell for Conchita—Chita’s real name. Those two are silent, or maybe not so silent, partners in my enterprise. Each day I contemplated the perfect view of the Church of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart across the plaza. Each day after my sisters arrived, we joined arms and marched over to the church to light candles and pray for the safe return of our little brother. Early on the sixth day, after setting the rice to boil, I stepped out of the café and looked through the lightening darkness at the statue of the Madonna. Her hands cupped that fickle heart. I said, “Please, Señora. You know what it’s like to lose a boy. Please send our Tomasito home safely.”
I couldn’t see her face clearly, but she spoke from across the plaza. She used the voice only a Montero could hear, saying, “You are too demanding, my child. You must accept God’s way.”
“No!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls and down the street. Ernesto across the road opened his second-floor shutters, and nosy Anna up the way leaned out her window. I waved at them, it is nothing. I had to continue my conversation with La Señora under my breath.
“If it is the way of God to punish us for speaking the truth about men drunk with power, then I am a crusader for the Devil!” I stopped. A silence ticked away. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”
The Madonna said, “You are upset, my dear, I understand. But now you must do penance.”
Behind me the top of the big stew pot started to rattle with the escaping steam. I pointed at her church. “I will do my penance, but I will not step foot inside your useless sanctuary until our Tomasito returns.”
An hour later, during breakfast, I watched through the window of my café as José approached with an unknown soldier behind him. I returned to my stove before they entered. There the kettle simmered and a pot of black beans cooled. I flipped over the frying black market eggs and turned off the fire. On the other side of the half-wall, six of the eight tables were filled with neighbors who had come together to keep each other company. Some ordered nothing, but I gave them a small plate anyway.
My José rushed in the front door carrying a large crate and made with the big important swagger in the five steps it took to cross the floor. He lifted the crate onto the counter beside the stove. Another language marched across the side of the box in angry red letters. The soldier who followed was a big blond man, muy guapo, a full head taller than my José. He wore a uniform different from that of our local comrades. His walk was precise and forceful, much too large for my small space.
José introduced me to this Captain B., who said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señora. I’ve heard many compliments of your cooking.” He spoke continental Spanish with a Russian accent.
“The pleasure is mine.” I know this Russian accent, this way of moving. I had a Russian lover during the heady days of the revolution, while my husband was stationed across the island and it was too dangerous to travel. At the time I believed José’s letters that said Comrade Castro and his Revolution would make a better life for all of us. My affair was full of patriotic fervor, but I was glad that I had no blond baby to explain to dark José. When the promises evaporated, I became suspicious of anything the Russians brought.
“Please, Señora,” the captain continued. “We have some men who are doing important work in the field. We need a cook. Might you do us the favor of helping out?”
This was not a mere invitation. I had just been enlisted. “Of course.”
He glanced back at the full tables. Everyone, from old Pablo down to baby Trini, had stopped eating and had an ear turned to our conversation. The captain stepped closer and bent toward me with a confidential air. I smelled the acrid tang of last night’s vodka and the sweet sweat of a pig eater. This one would like my pork sandwiches. Since the rationing, I’d missed the aroma of roasting meat. “Your husband assures me of your discretion,” he said in a low voice.
“Claro que sí.” Of course José made these assurances. Did he know about the Russian lover? No! You see how discreet I was even with my own family? “And perhaps you could help me with one small matter. My customers need strength to serve our country and would appreciate fresh pork. I’m famous for my pork sandwiches.”
José’s eyes grew wide at my request, but the captain never blinked. He merely smiled. “Of course, Señora. I’ll see what I can do, especially if you would do me the personal favor of making one of your famous sandwiches for me.” I nodded my agreement, and our contract was complete.
