The birds did not disappoint. While individual birds at a distance could be hard to see, a mere dot on the horizon, a flock this size created an iridescent blue-black ribbon that made for a dazzling aerial dance of solidarity not to be missed. The creatures soon disappeared into the safe Miramar forest canopy as immediately as they’d appeared. He’d only the single instant to get off a single shot. As a professional photographer, he knew he’d captured something, but exactly what must remain a mystery until later when, using his computer, he’d convert the digital image on his screen. Until then, Tomaso could only hope he’d captured the splendor of the aerial tango. He thought of this just as a lone bird came into his peripheral vision- a slacker, trailing after. But the single creature fascinated Tomaso. Again, he aimed his camera, this time zooming in as the lone bird came ever nearer. He caught this single creature against the vastness of sky and cloud at exactly the right moment.
How like my Qui this one is, he thought, always the loner, and never one for a parade…yet so beautiful.
This magic of freezing a moment in time created a wondrous effect that communicated, influenced, and persuaded because it evoked passion and compassion. As a teenager, he’d learned to exploit this effect in provocative ways using photography as his weapon of choice. As a small child with his first camera, he’d had no notion of this power. “What did I know?” he muttered. “I was just a boy.”
The only son of wealthy parents, Tomaso was one of several children, in fact the youngest child. At age six, he’d begged for a camera and had gotten his way, but it’d been a cheap Eastman Kodak Brownie, a mere child’s toy instead of the one he’d wanted. Even so, when his pictures were processed, the developer complimented his mother on her new hobby and how wonderfully her photos had come out. Taking a much closer look at his pictures, his parents decided the photo-developer was right, so Tomaso soon got the Rolleiflex he wanted.
Not long after, he learned how to develop his own pictures. Tomaso loved to watch the fluid black images magically coalesce onto the white paper, freezing each into permanence. Tongs forgotten in his excitement, Tomaso’s fingers turned an unsightly yellow-brown from the developing solution-much to his parent’s dismay.
His reverie ended, Tomaso now set his camera aside, knelt, and began collecting the shards of clay pots that he’d earlier dropped. Tomaso tended his plants like a shepherd his sheep, his fingers now stained with dirt rather than photographic solution. He spoke to the plants, encouraging each. Who else am I going to talk to, he thought. Like Qui, I am a loner, always have been, a cruel thing to be if one is also an idealist looking for justice in this world. His thoughts wandered once again into his past as if reading his life history. My birthday…dredging up old memories. His hands continued to work the soil, while the breeze whispered through the branches.
He reached over to scratch Palo, his German shepherd; while the dog’s chin never left the pillow of his paws, Palo’s eyes followed Tomaso’s every movement, as if to ask why he worked so hard.
“In the old days, Palo, the more I looked through the camera lens, the more I saw only poverty and misery-as if the lens focused only negatives! Such poverty. So shocking to see how our people lived, not unlike here in Miramar.”
With a small groan, Palo rolled deeper in the shade, escaping the rising heat.
“When I was a boy, Palo, I never knew we were rich…never understood how hard my father worked to provide for us either. To me, he was just gone all the time.” Tomaso shrugged and frowned. “I only knew he went to work…a meaningless word to a child! Now Qui aha…she always knew what I did, and how I did it. My work was here and in the darkroom. Not in an office like my father.”
He arranged the moss in each of the baskets he intended to hang here in the courtyard. Palo yawned at his master’s activity.
“To succeed today, I knew my girl needed to understand how important work is to a person. The poor, now they understand the meaning and value of work, and yet they have nothing. God must love to see them suffer. Music and dance their only escape from poverty and pain and death. But what do I know? Only what my camera tells me, ’eh, Palo?”
As if in complaint, Palo arched his eyes and barked before returning to his nap.
No suffering goes on now in Cuba, none whatsoever, not according to The Beard. The old fool’s impoverished all of us, in Soul if not in pesos. So much for the promises of revolution.”
Tomaso straightened and stretched, his back aching, but he wanted these baskets planted and hanging by the time Qui crawled from bed. He’d heard her come in late the night before, but no sign of Montoya. He wondered if they were again feuding over her case.
He muttered aloud, “Tomaso, you need a break.”
“Tomaso, you need a break,” echoed the rich feminine voice of Marie Elena, his housekeeper. “Here, I’ve made you some lemonade, not too sweet, just the way you like it. Sit with me. Tell me half as much as you tell Palo.”
“Maria Elena, you spoil me!” he chided the young woman, pleased to see her smile. “If you must know my thoughts, I’m too old to be having birthdays.”
“You’re not so old!”
“My mirror tells me otherwise. I am old and nothing can change that.” He finally put aside his tools and walked to a shaded courtyard table where she’d placed glasses and iced lemonade. “So what’ve you and Palo been discussing?”
“All manner of things.”
“The state of the world, I suspect.”
“Well that, yes, and…and I’ve also been thinking what all old revolutionaries think.”
“And that is?” She poured a drink and handed it to him.
“Past glories and successes, of Old Cuba, of how Rafaela and I re-built this home, and how lovely are her flowers today. Just an old man’s thoughts, Maria.”
“You miss her, even now after nearly thirty years.” She placed a hand over his.
“Baaa, but you don’t want to hear me complain like some child. What is it, Maria? What troubles you on such a beautiful day?”
She placed her hands in the universal gesture of prayer. “How do you know my moods?”
He lifted his glass and wryly smiled. “You have three lovely children who adore you, you have a comfortable home here, you enjoy life. Your only curse everyone knows. Has Santos been around again, asking for money?”
She quickly looked down to hide eyes filling with tears. “He begs forgiveness and promises what he always promises-to stop drinking-but he doesn’t mean it, he never does.”
“And your curse is that you still love him.”
“Yes, but I can’t live with him. Yet when he begs me to take him back… Aiy dios mio…he called again last night.”
Palo got to his feet and ambled off at the mention of Santo’s name. He’d always harbored a dislike for the man.
She continued and Tomaso held her gaze. “So, even though it is your birthday, and Qui will be with you, and I want it to be a happy time, my heart is not cooperating.”
“It’s OK…it’s OK.”
“And, I worry about Enrique, so like his father-whom he adores, and the boy blames me for making Santos go away.”
Tomaso offered her a handkerchief. “Rique’s just too young to understand these things.”
“And I can’t tell him the truth about his father.”
He agreed, adding, “Santos is twisted inside from some pain that never healed. It shows in his eyes. He is greedy and doesn’t want to work.”
She only nodded. “Somehow the school failed him, and he has no good skills-”