Loosing My Espanish

Dona Liliana once danced the merengue at the Tropicana in a dress so red, so thin, so tighttan sexy, they said, they saidyou would have thought you had died and gone to heaven. Beseme chica; Beseme; Besitos, besitos, they said they all begged, they all wolf-whistled, they all sucked their teeth, and fanned themselves with napkins as she passed their tables. They disagreed as to what it was she wore that reminded them of jasmine; of vanilla; of orange peel; of bergamot, was the story that dona Cristina never told. What did you do before you came to the United States, the social worker asked dona Liliana though she was looking at me. Without waiting for my translation, dona Liliana answered, Era una revolucionaria. Digale, mijo, she insisted, tell her I bore the babies of the revolution. Ama gasped. Liliana, no! dona Cristina cried. Mira, dona Liliana said gesturing like the women she'd seen caressing cars and washing machines on television toward Julio y Roman Ellos no son muy hermosos, no? And while dona Liliana fell over herself in laughter, Ama brought the social worker a fresh cafecito even though the woman hadn't touched the first; dona Cristina put another pastelito on the woman's plate next to the first, though both sat there until later; after she had left, Julio would lick them both so that neither Roman nor I would ask for them. Tell her, mijo, dona Liliana said, smiling, wiping her tears, tell her, what do I have to lose anyway? Here, in a place where she had to be either Mexican or Puerto Rican, she was abruptly disinherited from her own beauty and privilege, or the beauty that was her privilege that no longer brought about entree or absolution. How would I know if I can still turn heads when I walk into a room, I once overheard her telling dona Cristina, when I have no idea who or what they see when they see me. It seems like the long-ago-and-far away sort of time, yo lo se, senor Ostrovski, pero there was a time when all she needed to do was turn to the society page in El Diario de la Marina or Havana Post with her morning coffee to find out who she was the night before. What she wore. On whose arm was she seen. Daughter of Industrialist, each article starts in the spectral drift of microfiche. Sometimes they weren't even complete articles, senores, go to any library that has Cuban papers on file from the 1950's: Daughter of prominent Cuban Industrialist, next to advertisements for Hiel de Vaca from Crusellas and Kolonia with a K was delicate to the skin, seen in a sequined Dior gown; at The Ballet; on the steps of the opera house; at the opening of a pavilion; and of course, there were the great numbers of coming out parties; charity dances; Senorita Lilianadaughter of one of our most prominent industrialistsque bonita; lovely as could be imagined; reviving the scalloped neckline; clutching a spray of veronica and pink roses; accompanied the son of, the newly appointed, the up-and-coming, the next. Until one evening, the Havana Post announced Batista had left the country. None of you, senores, I realize, or for at least most of you, the fact that the President had left the country is somewhat unfathomable. For you, presidentswhether or not you happen to agree with their politics or not; whether you happen to know who they are or not for that matter, senor Chavezare like fixtures and to have one suddenly leave the country would be the same as if you woke to find your street had turned into a river and you and your bed was floating headed toward the lake; shifts of who and whatCarrillo, H. G. is the author of 'Loosing My Espanish ', published 2005 under ISBN 9781400078141 and ISBN 1400078148.