Dinner was pleasant enough, and their waitress brought them mango slices for dessert. She seemed to take a genuine interest in making sure that they enjoyed their visit to Bejucal, so Jack thought he’d push his luck.
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Celia Méndez?” he asked.
She scrunched her face, thinking. “I know a couple of Méndez families. But not a Celia Méndez. How old is she?”
Jack pulled the old photograph of his mother and Celia Méndez from his pocket. It made him nervous to play this hand. All these years, he’d figured that Celia Méndez, his mother’s best friend in Cuba, would be his best source of information about his mother. But what if it didn’t pan out?
He showed the snapshot to the waitress and said, “This was taken over forty years ago. So I’d guess she’s probably close to sixty.”
The waitress shook her head, no recognition. “Sorry. Can’t help you. But there is a Méndez who runs a casa particular over on Calle Martí. That family has lived in Bejucal for years. Why don’t you stop by there? Maybe they can help you.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that.”
She wrote down the address for them. Jack paid the bill in U.S. dollars, the only currency that seemed to matter in “communist” Cuba, and they left.
The literal translation of casa particular was “private home,” and for many travelers there was no better accommodation in Cuba than to rent a room from a Cuban family. It had been illegal to rent housing in Cuba after the revolution, but all that changed with the fall of the Soviet Union and the Cuban government’s need to find a new “super-power” (read: tourism) to prop up its failing economy. A new law in 1996 allowed Cubans to rent out one or two rooms in their homes, and soon afterward thousands of casas particulares popped up across the country, providing a hefty sum in tax revenues to a dictator who was clearly more interested in self-perpetuation than communist principle.
La Casa Méndez was a simple but tidy house facing a cobblestone street. A plump woman with dark skin and a bright yellow headband in her hair greeted them at the door. She was at most fifty, Jack surmised, too young to be his mother’s friend Celia. She introduced herself as Felicia Méndez Ortiz. Rather than diving into his detective role with a slew of questions about Celia Méndez, Jack decided to break the ice with a simple business inquiry.
“Do you have a room available?”
“Yes,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Just one.”
“May we see it, please?”
“Of course. Come in.”
The room was in the back of the house near the kitchen. There were two twin beds, a dresser, and an old rug on the floor. The annoying glow from a lamp with no shade was the only light in the room. They had walked past the living room and two other bedrooms to get there. Jack counted eleven people in the house, seven adults and four children. The Cuban woman explained that the big advantage of staying at a casa particular was that you get to live with a Cuban family, but the big disadvantage was that you get to live with a Cuban family.
“We’ll take it,” said Sofia.
“What?” said Jack.
She switched to English, for Jack’s ears only. “If you’re really good, I’ll let you push the beds together. But don’t count on it.”
He knew she was kidding. “I was only being polite when I asked to see the room. I wasn’t actually planning on staying here.”
“You want to give this nice family your money, or you want to go back to Hotel Nacional?”
“You sure you’re okay with this?”
“I had a male roommate all through law school. Nothing ever happened, and he was even cuter than you.”
Jack wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but it didn’t matter. “Okay. If you’re up for it, we’ll stay.” He looked at the woman and said in Spanish, “We’ll take it.”
She smiled and led them to the kitchen. They sat around the table, and she recorded their names and passport numbers. And, of course, she offered them something to eat. It was a genetic thing, Jack decided, this Cuban compulsion to offer food to a guest even when there was none in the house. Jack and Sofia declined, but they did take the café. It was hot and strong, and the smell of roasted beans reminded Jack of Abuela’s kitchen. Jack had just about finished his cup when he decided it was time to share the photograph.
He laid it on the table and asked, “Do you happen to know a woman named Celia Méndez?”
The woman set her cup on the table. A smile crept to her lips as she examined the photograph. “You know Celia?”
“No. My mother did.”
“Don’t tell me your mother was Ana,” she said.
Jack’s heart thumped. She knew! “Yes. Ana Maria Fuentes.”
She studied Jack’s face, then glanced back at the photograph. She brought a hand to her mouth, as if astonished that so much time had passed. “Now I see it. You look very much like your beautiful mother. Celia and she were the best, best of friends. It broke her heart when she heard that she passed away. Such a shame.” She shuddered, seemingly embarrassed by her own insensitivity. “Forgive me. I am sorry for your loss, as well, of course.”
“Thank you. Did you know my mother?”
“A little. I was only seven-no, eight-years old when Ana left for America. Celia was my oldest sister.”
Again, his pulse quickened. “Where can I find Celia?”
She blinked twice, then lowered her eyes. “Celia is dead.”
Jack’s heart sank, and his “Oh, no” was involuntary.
“She passed away last March. It was very sudden. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. I know it may be difficult for you to talk about her, but if there’s anything you remember about Celia and my mother, I would love to hear about them.”
“I have some things, yes. But it’s hard for me to know what I remember and what I remember Celia telling me, if you see the difference.”
“Yes, I do. Whatever you can tell me, that’s all I want to know.”
The sadness seemed to drain away. Thinking of a much younger Celia was lifting the woman’s spirits. “Celia and Ana were inseparable,” she said with a nostalgic grin. “They did everything together. It was Celia who introduced your mother to her first boyfriend.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No, I don’t. But Ana’s mother-your grandmother-didn’t like him one bit. She didn’t like Celia, either. Mostly because it was Celia who introduced this boy to her daughter.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Why was my grandmother so against him?”
She winced a little. “Your grandmother has never talked to you about Ana’s boyfriend, has she?”
“No. Tell me.”
“Are you sure you want to know everything?”
“Yes. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come here if I weren’t sure.”
She took a deep breath, then said, “Your mother got pregnant.”
Jack went cold.
She nodded toward the photograph and said, “She’s probably with child in that photograph. She was just seventeen when it happened.”
“Are you sure?” asked Jack.
“Oh, yes. I’m not mistaken about this. We’re talking over forty years ago. A teenage girl, pregnant? This was quite the scandal in Bejucal. I don’t remember everything that happened when I was eight years old. But I remember that.”
“Did she-” Jack hesitated, afraid to ask. “Did my mother have the child?”
“I’m not sure I ever knew exactly what happened. I remember hearing that she was pregnant. I heard people talk about it. And it wasn’t the next day, but it was pretty soon afterward that Ana Maria was on her way to Miami.”
“Was she pregnant when she left?”