The Island of Eternal Love

Part One

THE THREE ORIGINS

From Miguel’s Notebook

Mi chino . . . mi china:

A term of endearment used by Cubans among themselves without any implication of Asiatic blood on the part of the person so addressed.

The same can be said of the expression mi negro or mi negra, which is not necessarily applied only to those with black skin.

These are simple expressions of friendship or love, whose origin dates back to when first the three principal ethnicities that make up the Cuban nation—Spanish, African, and Chinese—began to blend.

BLUE NIGHT

It was so dark that Cecilia could hardly see her. Rather, she intuited her silhouette behind the small table next to the wall, beside the photos of the sacred dead: Beny Moré, the genius of the bolero; Rita Montaner, adored diva of Cuban composers; the night-black chansonnier Bola de Nieve, with his smile, white and sweet as sugar. . . . The dimness of the place, nearly empty at that time of night, was already becoming contaminated by the smoke of Marlboros, Dunhills, and the occasional Cohiba cigar.

The girl paid no attention to her friends’ chatter. It was the first time she’d ever been there, and while she recognized a certain charm to the place, her own stubbornness—or perhaps skepticism—would not yet let her admit what she knew was true. A sort of energy floated in the bar, a whiff of enchantment, as if the door to another universe had opened. In any case, she resolved to determine for herself whether or not the rumors circulating in Miami about the hangout were true. She sat down with her friends near the bar, one of the few places with any light. The other illuminated space was a screen across which scenes of an antiquated Cuba, resplendent and colorful, paraded.

It was then that she saw her. At first Cecilia thought she was an outline of a shadow amid the surrounding darkness. A reflection led her to believe that the woman was bringing a glass to her lips, but the gesture was so fleeting that she questioned whether she had really seen it. Why had Cecilia fixated on this woman? Perhaps because of the strange solitude that seemed to settle over her. . . . But Cecilia hadn’t gone there to feed on new suffering. She decided to forget about the woman and order a drink. That would help her probe the enigma her spirit had recently become—a region of herself she’d always believed she knew, but one that had, of late, turned into a labyrinth.

She had left her country escaping many things, so many that there was no longer any value in remembering them. And as she watched the crumbling buildings along the Malecón disappear into the horizon—in that strange summer of 1994 when so many fled the island on rafts in broad daylight—she swore she would never return. Now, four years later, she was still afloat. She wanted nothing to do with the country she’d left behind, but she still felt like a stranger in the city that housed the largest number of Cubans in the world after Havana.

She tasted her martini. She could almost see her own reflection in the glass and in the swaying clear, vaporous liquid penetrating her nostrils. She tried to concentrate on the miniature ocean rocking between her fingers, and on that other sensation creeping in as well. What was it? She had felt it as soon as she entered the bar, noticed the musicians’ photos, and gazed at the images of a bygone Havana. Her glance once again rested on the motionless silhouette in the corner.

Her eyes returned to the screen, where a suicidal sea crashed against the Havana seawall, the Malecón, while Beny Moré sang: . . . and when I kissed your lips, my soul was at peace. But the melody evoked a feeling contrary to his declaration. Cecilia sought refuge in her martini. In spite of her desire to forget, she was overcome by embarrassing emotions, like that quavering in her heart she preferred to dismiss. It was a terrifying feeling. She didn’t identify with those painful heartbeats stirred by the bolero. She realized she was beginning to miss the gestures and sayings, even certain expressions she had detested when she lived on the island, an entire lexicon of murky neighborhoods that she was now dying to hear in this city full of Hi, sweeties or Excuse mes, where all blended into a Spanish that came from many different places but belonged to none.

My God! she thought, plucking the olive from her glass. To think I actually studied English over there! She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to eat the olive or leave it until she had finished her drink. And all because of my obsession to read Shakespeare in the original, she recalled, biting down. Now she hated all that. Not the bald poet of the Globe Theatre, of course; him she still loved. But she was tired of hearing a language that wasn’t her own.

She regretted gulping down the olive in a fit of anger. Now her martini no longer looked like a martini. Again, she turned her head toward the corner. The old woman was still there, her glass practically untouched, mesmerized by the images on the screen. A solemn, warm voice, a vestige of another era, spilled from the speakers: It hurts so much, it hurts, to feel so alone. . . . Oh, God, what a sappy song. Like all boleros. But Cecilia could identify. She was so ashamed that she gulped down half her drink, and it launched her into a coughing fit.

Don’t drink so fast, girl. I’m not in the mood to play nursemaid today, said Freddy, whose name wasn’t actually Freddy but Facundo.

Don’t tell her what to do, murmured Lauro, alias La Lupe, but really Laureano. Let her drown her sorrows.

Cecilia shifted her eyes from her glass, feeling the weight of a silent summons. She sensed that the old woman was watching her, but the smoke obscured her line of sight. Was the woman really looking at the table where Cecilia and her two friends sat, or was she gazing beyond them toward the dance floor, at the musicians who were beginning to arrive? The images vanished, and the screen rose like a heavenly bird, disappearing into the ceiling’s framework. There was a barely discernible pause, and suddenly the musicians let loose with a feverish passion capable of unleashing the soul. That rhythm infused her with an indescribable sadness. She felt the pang of memory.

She noticed the astonishment of a group of Nordic-type tourists. They must have found it very strange to see a young man with the profile of Lord Byron playing drums as if possessed by the devil, standing next to an Asian-featured mulatto woman who was shaking her braids to the beat of the claves; and that prodigious-voiced black man, like an African king—a silver hoop in his ear—singing a range of cadences, from an operatic baritone to the nasality of the son.

Cecilia scanned her companions’ faces and realized what it was that made them so attractive. It was the unawareness of their own mixture, their inability to acknowledge (or their indifference to) their diverse origins. She looked toward the other table, feeling sorry for those Vikings, trapped in their bland monotony.

Let’s dance, Freddy said, tugging at her.

Are you crazy? I’ve never danced to this in my life.

As an adolescent she had devoted herself to listening to songs about stairways reaching to heaven and trains that passed through graveyards. Rock music was subversive then, and it had filled her with passion. But her adolescence was long gone, and now she would have given anything to dance this guaracha that was lifting everyone from their chairs. How she envied those dancers, gyrating, pausing, entangling, and disentangling themselves without losing their rhythm.

Freddy got tired of begging, so he grabbed La Lupe instead. And off they went toward the dance floor, amid the chaos. Cecilia took another sip of her ancient martini, by now on the brink of extinction. Only she and the old woman remained at their tables. Even the descendants of Erik the Red had joined the revelry.

She finished her drink, and without any affectation, sought out the old woman. It made her feel slightly uneasy to see her so alone, so removed from the general commotion. The smoke had cleared, almost as if by magic, and she could distinguish the old woman more clearly. She was watching the dance floor with an amused expression, and her eyes sparkled. Suddenly she did something unexpected: she turned her head and smiled at Cecilia. When Cecilia returned the smile, the old woman pulled out a chair, in invitation. Without a moment’s hesitation, Cecilia went to join her.

Why aren’t you dancing with your friends?

The woman’s voice was tremulous, but clear.

I never learned, Cecilia replied, and now I’m too old.

What would you know about being old? the woman muttered, her smile fading slightly. You still have half your life in front of you.

Cecilia didn’t respond, her interest caught by something that hung from a chain around the old woman’s neck: a little hand clasping a dark stone.

What’s that?

Oh! The woman suddenly emerged from her reverie. A gift from my mother. It’s against the Evil Eye.

The lights began to spin in all directions, vaguely illuminating her face. She was a mulatto, nearly white, although her features revealed her mixed race. And she didn’t appear as old as Cecilia had first guessed. Or did she? The fleeting reflections seemed to change her moment by moment.

My name’s Amalia. What’s yours?

Cecilia.

Is this your first time here?

Yes.

Do you like it?

Cecilia hesitated. I don’t know.

I can see it’s hard for you to admit it.

The young woman fell silent, while Amalia rubbed her amulet.

The guaracha ended with three strikes of the güiro, and the soft trill of a flute introduced another number. No one wanted to sit down. The old woman watched the dancers take up the beat again, as if enchanted by the music of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Do you come here often? Cecilia ventured to ask.

Almost every night. . . . I’m waiting for someone.

Why don’t you make a date with them? That way you wouldn’t have to wait alone.

I enjoy the atmosphere, the woman admitted, and her glance lingered on the dance floor. It reminds me of another time.

And who are you waiting for, if I might ask?

It’s quite a long story, although I could tell you the short version. She paused to stroke her amulet. Which one do you prefer?

The interesting one, Cecilia said without hesitation.

Amalia smiled.

It all started more than a century ago. I’d like to tell you from the beginning, but it’s getting late.

Cecilia nervously gripped the table, not knowing if the comment was a refusal or a promise. Classic images of an antique Havana overcame her: women with pale faces and thick brows, wearing flowered hats; shimmering signs on a commercial street; Chinese greengrocers hawking their wares on every corner . . .

That came afterward, the woman whispered. What I want to tell you took place long before that, on the other side of the world.

Cecilia was startled by the way the old woman had intuited her daydream, but she tried to control herself as the woman began to tell her a story unlike anything she had ever read or heard. It was a story of fiery landscapes and creatures that spoke an incomprehensible dialect, of superstitions and ethereal ships that sailed for the unknown. She barely remembered that the musicians were still playing and the couples still danced endlessly. It was as if some sort of pact existed between the band, the dancers, and the old woman, allowing her and Cecilia to converse alone.

Amalia’s tale was more of an incantation than a story. The wind blew menacingly through the tall sugarcane in a distant country, rife with beauty and violence. There were celebrations and deaths, weddings and killings. The scenes were peeled from some corner of the universe as though someone had made a hole through which memories of a forgotten world could escape. When Cecilia once again became aware of her surroundings, the old woman was gone, and the dancers had returned to their tables.

Ay, I’ve had enough, sighed La Lupe, falling into a chair. I think I’m gonna pass out.

You don’t know what you missed, girl. Freddy quaffed the rest of his drink. "That’s what you get for acting like a gringa."

With that ghost-white face she doesn’t need to act like anything. She’s in another world, can’t you see?

Shall we order another round?

It’s late, she said. We should go.

Ceci, excuse me for saying so, but you’ve been acting like a snowman: a-bom-i-na-ble.

Sorry, Laureano, but I’m starting to get a headache.

Girl, lower your voice, he said. Don’t call me that, or pretty soon people will start asking questions.

Cecilia stood up, rooting in the bottom of her purse for some money, but Freddy stopped her.

No, tonight it’s on us. That’s why we asked you to come out.

Kisses as insubstantial as butterflies. In the darkness, Cecilia verified once more that the old woman had gone. She didn’t understand why, but she was reluctant to leave. She walked slowly, bumping into chairs, without taking her eyes from the screen, where a couple from another era was dancing a son as no one of her own generation could. Finally, she stepped out into the sultry night.

The visions conjured from the old woman’s tale—the evocation of a Havana filled with music and life—had left her with an odd sensation of dislocation. She felt like one of those saints that can be in two places at the same time.

I’m here, now, she assured herself.

She glanced at her watch. It was so late that there wasn’t a doorman in sight. It was so late that there wasn’t a soul in sight. Knowing she’d have to walk alone to the corner brought her fully back to the present.

The clouds had swallowed the moon, pierced here and there by milky rays. Two penetrating eyes opened next to a wall. A cat moved among the shrubbery, alert to her presence. As if on cue, the lunar disk escaped its cloudy eclipse, illuminating the feline and its silvery body. Cecilia studied the shadows: hers and the cat’s. It was a blue night, like the one in the bolero. Perhaps that was why it reminded her of Amalia’s story.

WAIT FOR ME IN HEAVEN

Lingao-fa decided it was a good night to die. A warm wind blew between the reeds rising timidly from the water. Perhaps it was the breeze, its spirit fingers caressing her clothing, that filled her with a sense of the inevitable.

She stood on tiptoe, the better to breathe the clouds. She was still slender, like the lotus adorning the pond, with its gauzy-tailed fishes. Her mother would sometimes sit alone by the pond and contemplate the bulbous stalks that disappeared into the quagmire, often stooping to touch them. And this would fill her with peace. She always suspected that her own contact with the flowers had endowed her daughter with the delicate features so many had admired since her birth: smooth, creamy skin; feet as soft as petals; straight, shiny hair. So, when it came time to celebrate her arrival—one month after her delivery—she decided on her name: Lotus Blossom.

She regarded the humid fields that seemed to swell on that afternoon just like her breasts when she had nursed her rosebud, little Kui-fa. The child was now eleven years old, and soon a husband would have to be found for her; but that task would fall to her brother-in-law Weng, her closest male relative.

With hesitant steps Lingao-fa headed inside. She owed her unstable gait to the size of her feet. To prevent their growth, her mother had bound them for years. It was an important requirement if she wanted to make a good marriage. That’s why she, in turn, now bound the feet of little Kui-fa, despite the child’s tearful protestations. It was an agonizing process: all the toes, except the big one, had to be bent toward the ground; then, a stone would be placed in the arch and held down by bandages. Although she herself had abandoned the custom since her husband’s death, a few broken, badly healed little bones had left a permanent mark on the way she moved.

She reached the kitchen, where Mei Lei was cutting vegetables, and she noticed her daughter playing by the fire. Mei Lei wasn’t any ordinary servant. She had been born to a wealthy household and had even learned to read, but by a series of misfortunes she ended up a landlord’s concubine. Only her master’s death had freed her from such affliction. Alone and with no resources, she offered her services to the Wongs.

Did you get the cabbage, Mei Lei?

Yes, Madame.

And the salt?

Everything you ordered. And she added timidly, Madame mustn’t worry.

I don’t want the same thing to happen as last year.

Mei Lei blushed with shame. Although her mistress never scolded her for anything, she knew that the last flood had been her fault. She was old now and forgot certain things.

This year we won’t have any problems, she said brightly. The temple lords are elegantly robed.

I know, but sometimes the gods are vengeful. It’s good to have extra, just in case.

Lingao-fa went to the bedroom, and the aroma of the simmering soup followed after her. Early widowhood had awakened the greed of several esteemed landowners, not just because of her beauty, but also because the late Shi had left her many fields where rice and vegetables grew, in addition to some cattle. Modestly but firmly, she had rejected all their proposals, until her brother-in-law suggested that she marry a Macao businessman. He was the owner of a bank that managed the clan’s finances, and their union would ensure the safety of the family fortune. She didn’t know what to do or from whom to seek counsel. Her parents were dead, and she had to obey her deceased husband’s older brother. One day she realized the decision could no longer be postponed. Weng presented himself at her door and told her, without preamble, that the wedding would take place on the third day of the fifth moon.

On the table was the silver comb her mother had given her. With a mechanical gesture she caressed the mother-of-pearl inlay, and after untangling her hair, she dampened it to refresh herself and then she stepped outside the front door. The moon emerged from behind the clouds.

It’s your fault, damned old man, she muttered angrily, looking at the brilliant disc that housed the capricious old man in the moon. He was the one who tied together the feet of those destined to marry—and few escaped his plan. He was why she had become Shi’s wife, and why she now had to face her troubling destiny.

It was the last time she would see that bluish light over the countryside, but she didn’t care. Anything was better than bearing an endless torment. She cared nothing for Weng’s mockery. He had often ridiculed her beliefs. She knew that her husband’s spirit would tear her to shreds in the next life if she ever were to remarry. A woman can only be the property of one man, and that conviction certainly bore down on her more than never seeing her loved ones again.

That night she dined early, tucked in Kui-fa, and remained at her bedside longer than usual. Afterward she said good night to Mei Lei, who was about to go to sleep at the foot of the child’s bed, and quietly went out to the patio, where she remained for hours contemplating the constellations. . . . It was the cook who discovered her hanging from the tree the following morning, next to the pond of golden fishes.

Lingao- fa was buried with great honors on a foggy dawn in 1919. Her death, however, was not totally useless to Weng. In spite of the fact that the merchant had lost all possibility of a business relationship, the family’s prestige grew, thanks to her display of conjugal fidelity. Besides, as the relative charged with the future upbringing of Kui-fa, his capital grew with the riches that passed into his hands. Of course, the money and jewels that were part of Kui-fa’s dowry remained in chests in the bank in Macao. And as far as the cattle and crops were concerned, the businessman resolved to multiply—as long as he could—whatever he was now charged with administering.

Weng felt great respect for his ancestors, and although he wasn’t superstitious—unlike some other villagers—he did nothing to avoid the honors accorded him by the interminable line of dead relatives that accumulated from one generation to the next. Because he felt such loyalty to his dead, Weng resolved immediately that his niece should be treated like one of his own children, a very uncommon decision in a place where girls were seen as a burden. But in truth, all obligations aside, the businessman understood the practical side of his tutelage. Kui-fa was as pretty as her mother, and she possessed a dowry with no shortage of relics and family jewels, in addition to the lands that would be turned over to her husband as soon as she married. Three years before, Weng had taken as his charge the son of Tai Kok, a cousin who had died under somewhat unclear circumstances on an island in the Caribbean Sea where he had gone seeking his fortune, following in his father’s footsteps. Siu Mend was a quiet child, gifted in mathematics, whom Weng wished to initiate into his business affairs. There was no one better than that boy, he thought, as a husband for his niece. She would soon be of age to negotiate a marriage.

For the moment, little Kui-fa would remain in the care of Mei Lei, who would be responsible for ensuring her virtue. The nursemaid would sleep on the floor at her mistress’s feet, as she had always done, which might ease Kui-fa’s sadness at her mother’s absence.

In any case, her new home was a noisy place where all sorts of people freely came and went. Apart from Uncle Weng and his wife, in the house also lived Grandfather San Suk, who almost never left his room; two married cousins, the sons of his uncle, with their wives and children; the boy called Siu Mend, who spent his days studying or reading; and five or six servants. But it wasn’t her cluster of relatives that most aroused her curiosity. Occasionally she spied some pale visitors with round, washed-out eyes, wrapped in dark, tight-fitting clothing and speaking a barely comprehensible Cantonese. The first time Kui-fa saw one of those creatures, she ran into the house screaming that there was a demon in the garden. Mei Lei calmed her after going out to investigate, reassuring her that it was just a lou-fan, a white foreigner. From that time on, the child devoted herself to the comings and goings of those luminous beings that her uncle treated with special reverence. They were tall, like the giants in stories, and they spoke with strange music in their throats. On one occasion, one of them surprised her while she was spying on him. He smiled at her, but she took off in a flash, looking for Mei Lei, and didn’t return until the voices had faded into the distance.

During the day, Kui-fa spent hours by the fire, listening to stories from the old woman’s youth. That was how she learned of the existence of the God of Wind, the Goddess of the North Star, the God of the Hearth, the God of Wealth, and many others. She loved to hear about the Great Flood, caused by a lord who, filled with shame at having been defeated by a warrior queen, banged his forehead against a gigantic bamboo tree that punctured the clouds. But her favorite was the story of the Eight Immortals who attended the birthday party of the Queen Mother of the West, by the Lake of Jewels, and who, to the rhythm of music played by invisible instruments, participated in a feast where the most exquisite dishes were served in abundance: monkey tongue, dragon liver, bear paws, phoenix marrow, and other delicacies. The climax of the banquet was dessert: peaches fresh from a tree that blooms only once every three thousand years.

Mei Lei dug deep into her memory to satisfy the child’s curiosity. Those were peaceful years, like only those lived unreflectively can be, years that, at life’s end, are recalled as the happiest. Only once did something happen to interrupt their monotonous existence. Kui-fa fell gravely ill. Fever raged through her body, as if an evil spirit was trying to steal her young life away. No doctor could find the cause of her illness, but Mei Lei didn’t lose her head. She went to the Temple of the Three Origins with three paper banners on which she had written the characters for heaven, earth, and water. In the tower of the temple, she offered the first banner to heaven; then she buried the one belonging to the earth beneath a little pile of dirt; and finally she plunged the last scroll deep into a stream. A few days later the child began to recover.

Mei Lei dedicated a corner of her room to the adoration of the Three Origins, sources of happiness, forgiveness, and protection. And she taught Kui-fa always to keep in harmony with those three powers. From that time on, heaven, earth, and water were the three kingdoms to which Kui-fa directed her thoughts, knowing that in them, she would always find protection.

The rainy months passed, and the time arrived when the God of the Hearth would rise to the celestial regions to take note of the people’s actions below. Later on, the harvest season began, and after that came the gusts of the typhoon season. The months passed, and again the God of the Hearth began his ascent, carrying with him divine gossip that mortals attempted to sweeten by smearing the statue’s lips with honey. And the peasants went back to their planting, and the rains returned, as did the season of one thousand winds that shredded the paper kites. And amid the kitchen aromas and the god-plagued legends, Kui-fa became a young woman.

At an age when many young girls were already nursing children of their own, Kui-fa still clung to Mei Lei’s braid, but Weng didn’t seem to take note. His head was filled with the counting of numbers and projects, like grains of rice, and that feverish activity had postponed his niece’s wedding indefinitely.

But one afternoon, as they were chatting in one of the teahouses (where the men went only to make deals or find prostitutes), he overheard some neighbors commenting on a young woman of marriageable age and with a good dowry, who was nonetheless condemned to an undeserved spinster-hood by a greedy uncle. Weng pretended he hadn’t heard a thing, but he blushed to his roots, already tinged with gray. When he returned home, he called Siu Mend on some pretext and watched the boy as he went over some papers. The adolescent had become a robust young man, decidedly handsome. That same night, when the family gathered for dinner, he decided to announce the news:

I’ve been thinking Kui-fa should get married.

Everyone, including Kui-fa herself, raised their eyes from their plates.

We will have to find her a husband, his wife ventured.

It’s not necessary, Weng said, fishing for a piece of bamboo shoot. Siu Mend will make a good husband.

Now all eyes were directed toward the astonished Siu Mend and then toward Kui-fa, who fixed her gaze on the platter of meat.

It would be good to celebrate the wedding during the kite festival.

It was a propitious date. On the ninth day of the ninth moon, it was customary to climb to a high place, either a hill or a temple tower, in order to commemorate an event from the Han dynasty, when a teacher saved his pupil’s life by warning him that a terrible flood would demolish the earth. The youth fled toward the mountain, and on his return, he discovered that all his animals had drowned. That commemorative festival heralded the season when the winds howled fiercely and endlessly, with the promise of future storms. Then, from the mountaintop, hundreds of paper animals were launched into the air with their gaily colored forms: pink dragons, butterflies that fluttered furiously, birds with moving eyes, warrior insects . . . Each year, an entire assortment of impossible beings fought eternal, legendary battles for the dominion of the skies.

On the very day of her wedding, from behind the curtains of her sedan chair, Kui-fa could discern the distant silhouette of a phoenix. She couldn’t quite distinguish its colors because a red veil covered her face. And when she walked, she needed to look steadily down at her feet if she didn’t want to trip and fall.

The young woman had not seen Siu Mend again since the night when her uncle had announced their betrothal. Mei Lei was charged with keeping her hidden. Wary of the man’s imprudence at declaring their engagement with both parties present at the table, the servant decided to counteract his carelessness. Taking advantage of a moment