By then, my father, raised on farms near Jiguaní in eastern Cuba, and a campesino to his bones, had begun his courtship of my mother in earnest; he’d met her in 1939, when she was working as a ticket girl in a movie house in Holguín. Perhaps he’d gone there to look for women or to take in a movie or two, though Jiguaní, a largish town in its own right, must have surely had its share of cinemas. Whatever the circumstances, an afternoon arrived when he found himself waiting in a line by the ticket seller’s window of the Neptuno movie theater along one of the main drags of that city. Behind a glass or wire-meshed booth sat my mother, then twenty-six years of age and in her prime — with a good figure and of a fair height, about five foot five in low-heeled shoes, her hair dark, curled, and falling to her shoulders, her face so intelligent, whimsical, and filled with life, her lips pursed in a smile.
She must have given him a mirthful up-and-down — because he was already some kind of man, exuding a perfume-drenched sweat and virility that she would one day describe to me, laughing, as “muy muy fuerte” (“Oh so very powerful”). She must have liked something about him, perhaps the hopefulness that she saw in his eyes. Doubtless he was cordial and gentlemanly around her, didn’t drink or smoke, though he would have shown the hard edges of a fellow brought up on a farm. Since she always took in the movies after her shift ended, she probably joined him inside the theater, and as he slipped in a few words during those stretches when that interior, filled with cigarette smoke and the cries of infants, grew cacophonous with conversation, he probably tried to talk her into going out somewhere, to a dance hall or for a stroll in one of Holguín’s small parks or to dally in a café. Eventually there came the moment when she first heard him say his name: “Soy José-Pascual Hijuelos de Jiguaní,” and she told him her own, “Magdalena de la Luz.”
Possibly, as she sat across from him during a meal in one of the town’s placitas, she noticed the way he chewed his food loudly, smacking his lips; and while this may have offended her always snooty sensibilities, for she had come from a good family that had fallen on hard times, there would have been something so engaging about his smile and the way he looked at her, as if she were the only one in the world, that she would have forgiven that crudeness. Somewhere along the line, after they’d been seeing each other for a while, they would have started fooling around in some manner and laughed at the stars the way young people, feeling immortal, do while strolling through the night, the velvet sky hanging over them. They would have made a hell of an impression in the local dance halls, and the more they saw each other, the more she would have felt confused by her growing feelings for this plainspoken fellow from Jiguaní. At the time, there was someone else hovering about the periphery of her life, a well-off lawyer who’d been after her lately. But perhaps he was dull as a button, a very proper sort, a gentleman, ever so obedient and respectful around women, the sort to insist upon a chaperone — in other words, a bore — while she, a live wire in those days, wanted someone a little more exciting even if he might be a little blunt in his manner, but not overly so, like the tall campesino who’d smelled of both the farm and cologne, and seemed, from the way he stared at her, to know something about women.
After a while, they began spending time in each other’s family homes, so they might find out what they were getting into. Now, while my father grew up mainly in the countryside of Oriente province, with a bloodline going back to who knows when in Cuba — the 1820s, if not earlier, I’ve heard — my mother came from a family whose beginnings in Cuba were of far more recent vintage, the early 1890s. That’s when my maternal grandfather, one Gerónimo Torrens, from whom I derived my middle name (yes, Jerome), first arrived in eastern Cuba from Barcelona as an officer with the Spanish army. In those contentious times — the Cubans had been struggling to gain independence from Spain on and off since the first wars of the 1830s — my grandfather oversaw the collecting of road and bridge tariffs from the local Cuban populace in and around the districts of Holguín. Though a photograph of him, taken in his later middle age, circa 1920 or so, conveys the image of a bald and prosperous, somewhat portly gentleman with a quite serious no-nonsense countenance, he had carried out his duties as a young officer rather casually, often looking the other way when it came to the Cubans, whose affable manner and patriotic fervor had won his sympathies. (My mother would always talk about the way he, a Catalan and therefore a separatist by inclination, never charged the Cubans for their passage through his toll roads and how he was well liked because of it.) He was certainly taken by the forested beauty of the region and by the friendly nature of its people, for by the time the Cuban republic finally came into being in 1902, he, like so many other Spaniards before him, decided to put down roots there.
From a prosperous family in Barcelona, owners of one of the most successful shoe factories in Cataluña, he established a thriving shoe business of his own in Holguín. Along the way, he brought my maternal grandmother, María, over from Mallorca to join him. Whether they had married in Spain or tied the bonds in Holguín, I can’t say, but as an immigrant vested in that young nation’s future, Gerónimo, a Cuban by choice, brought into the world three holguinera daughters — María (1910), Magdalena (1913), and Margarita, or Cheo (1915), whom he, prospering from a postwar boom, raised in a fine house by a park not far from Holguín’s highest hill, Loma de la Cruz.
Which is to say that my mother, the same lady I’d sometimes see quietly muttering heaven knows what to herself as she went about washing the dishes, had grown up in the genteel and fairly comfortable existence of the Cuban upper middle class, with servants, cooks, and laundresses helping to run the household. They were well-off enough that she had journeyed as a young girl with her family to Spain, spending some months shuttling between Barcelona and Majorca, where on nearly every evening, they went to an opera or a ballet or a zarzuela; and when she and her family weren’t out enjoying that cultured life, my mother spent time with her abuelos, whom she, with wonderment in her eyes, always remembered as kindly and refined—“gente refinada,” as she’d put it — their life, as she had experienced it, but a glimpse of a world she would never see again. What she must have dreamed about on those transatlantic voyages to and from Spain as she’d stand by the railings of one of those ships, looking over the pitching grayness of the ocean, I can’t say. But as an elegant little girl in a sunbonnet and prim blue dress, with a slightly petulant look on her face, she had an imagination that would have populated those bell-waves with sirens and mermaids — no wonder, then, that she’d speak in later years of once having sailed across the Atlantic during the times of Columbus, via the enchantments of past reincarnations.
But it was not as if she returned home to a house that was lacking in the arts. My abuelo, a member of the Masonic Society, who sang opera and wrote poetry that he’d publish in Spain and in local Cuban newspapers, did everything he could to re-create the same kind of salon society in his home. Inviting many local artists into his house for weekly gatherings, he, without an iota of the campesino in him and a most formal man, became locally famous for such cultural fetes, which my mother, as a girl, had been encouraged to perform in. Though she never elaborated on just how those afternoons unfolded, beyond saying that their visitors sang, acted, played instruments, and recited famous poems and speeches, she’d come away from that time with an aristocratic and somewhat artistic air, even a haughtiness that would develop all the more as she grew older — and, in fact, poorer, for in the midst of those glories came her family’s decline, thanks to her father’s ambitions and, perhaps, his overly patriotic soul.