Emma and Dario

The last person Emma expected to meet on her day trip to the American side of the island was her future husband. She and her sister, Teresa, had a special escort—Officer Miguel Hernandez, who had an American friend with access to Guantanamo Bay. The whole trip was very exclusive.

Dario wasn’t supposed to be there. The Cubans that worked on the U.S. Naval Base were to report to work and go home, nothing more. From the bus to the telephone poll to the bus, no socializing.

But Dario’s wit and charm seemed to immunize him somehow from the ordinary rules of men. And this was his sister’s house, who was one of the few Cuban women that dare marry an American visitante. Dario had connections of his own.

So, there they were, the two of them. At just the right moment at just the right time, on an American base that neither of them belonged on. He greeted her with a gaze that seemed to say: I know you. We’ve been kindred spirits in lives already lived, many times over. The glint in his eye struck her first. He was full of pulsing energy that sparked between their fingers when he took her by the hand.

“Un placer conoserte, mujer,” he said through a smile. His honeyed words spilled from his lips like sap through bark—sweet, but sticky.

“Y usted,” she collected herself and returned the pleasantries.

He tuned the radio to Guantanamera, and the familiar notes soothed her in this foreign place. She watched him make a fresh round of cortaditos for the guests before joining the conversation. His hand shook slightly as he handed Emma her taza.

His hands could not hide that he was a working man. Yet he had a detectable air of elegance about him that intrigued her. He caught her staring, and she abruptly cast her attention elsewhere. Their eyes danced about in this manner as the conversation turned political.

“I hear Castro’s rebellion is gaining momentum,” said the American.

“Oh yes,” said Miguel. “The town over las montañas was bombed not two months back. They are getting closer.”

“America is watching,” said the American.

The following Saturday, Dario showed up at Emma’s doorstep in Guantanamo with a bag of fresh fruit.

“Oye, don’t tell me you ransacked all the farms between here and Caimanera!” she squealed. “I don’t know you, but the Sheriff is a family friend.”

“Como me mortificas, mujer! Can’t a man bring his girl some fruit? Or maybe you prefer bacon. Aye, si, un lechoncito, que rico!” He licked his lips and swayed his hips as he mocked her.

“Lechon is too expensive for you, pauper,” she snapped.

“Coño! I just called you my girl and that’s what you say? We must be made for each other, mi mujer.”

After that, he visited every Saturday for seven Saturdays. Until on the seventh Saturday, he found moving trucks in the drive way.

Emma addressed him with a firm tone, still believing he was too good to be true. “Teresa is starting a job at the telegraph center in town. My family needs the money, and she can’t go alone. I’m moving with her. It’ll be too far for you to visit. So, we won’t be seeing each other anymore.” She was matter-of-fact in her delivery, and he knew there was no persuading her otherwise.

“Bueno,” he replied, “I better help your brothers pack up your stuff. I know how high maintenance women like to have a lot of stuff.”

She appreciated his joke.

Dario rode with her brothers all the way to the new apartment and helped them unpack the furniture. It wasn’t much. A bed for the girls to share, a dining set for two, a writing desk, and a dresser. When the boys were done, Dario said goodbye.

“You know, Emma. That drive wasn’t so long. I think I’ll be seeing you next week.” And he hoped in the truck and drove off.

The next Saturday, Dario caught the first bus to Emma’s. He played dominoes with both sisters while they all toasted to their salud with small shot glasses filled with rum. Their chatter lasted well into the evening, and the whole party lost track of time. There were no more buses back to Guantanamo tonight. Emma feigned bitterness and rage as she violently prepared a place for him to sleep on the sofa.

“This is the last time you sleep here, do you hear me? I am a decent woman. We are two single women living here. I can’t have the neighbors talking.” In her alcohol-induced state, the words sounded silly and she fought hard to hold back laughter.

From then on, Dario stayed on that sofa every Saturday for seven Saturdays. Until one Saturday, he had had enough.

“Marry me, mujer.” He held her hips in his arms and swayed with her to the sound of Bésame Mucho playing in a neighbor’s flat.

For a moment, Emma wondered if this was only lust. Could this whole affair have been some terrible mistake? Who was this man, anyway? And could he really be hers?

He pushed her to the side to silence her thoughts. Then he guided her hand, gave her a twirl, and dipped her just below his chin.

“Yes!” She was elated, her worries somehow vanished.

Until new ones then appeared, “But how will we afford a wedding? A home? A family? It will take ages to save. Can you wait that long?”

“No,” he said with his arms around her waist, “Because I’ve already been saving. I have twenty thousand dollars, mujer.”

She looked at him with wide eyes that seemed to say: this can't be happening. She’d never seen that much money in her life. Was this a trick? Was he mixed up in something terrible?

She prodded him, “Where did you get that kind of money? You are an electrician for the Americans. They pay well, but not that well.”

He replied, “I have made this money honestly, and that is all I can tell you. You must take me at my word. If you can do that, we can be together forever. But you cannot ask me any more about it.”

Her mind raced, tracing her memories for clues. Could it be that he was helping the Americans with their counter-revolution? That would explain the cloak and dagger. And the lax rules they have with him. She decided to drop it. “Dario, if you earned the money honestly, I’ll drop the matter. But if I ever learn you’ve lied, the wrath may stop your heart,” she warned.

“I’d expect nothing less, mujer,” he accepted his fate with a smile.

“Well if you earned all that money yourself,” she switched gears, “you cannot be thinking you’ll be spending it on me. You’ve worked too hard for your dollars. Besides, I cannot be bought. You should have known better.”

“If not you, then who should I spend it on? Myself? The only thing I want for in this life is a wife. You’d have me spend it on some other woman, I guess? Too bad. The only wife I want is you.”

Her furrowed brow signaled she remained unconvinced, so he kept talking. “I love you, cojone. I’ve loved you for lifetimes. It’s time for us to live together in this lifetime, too.”

She knew it was true, and that resistance was no use. So she kissed her fate in an elated embrace.

Still, she spent only a modest sum on the wedding. The bulk of the funds went to the flat they purchased in Guantanamo. Her sisters helped her furnish the place with an eclectic collection of pieces from around the island. Dario purchased a radio. The flat was filled with the sounds of baseballs games and salsa music most of the time. Emma felt happy.

Then one day, she burst through the doors and shouted, “I’m pregnant!” Dario scooped her up and covered her with kisses until he remembered. “Oh, you shouldn’t toss a pregnant woman! I wouldn’t want to shake the baby loose.”

“You goof,” she replied, “you know nothing about babies, do you?”

He smiled. “Babies are people, too.”

“Babies need diapers, not charm. She’ll have no use for your jokes, hombre,” she said into the wind.

Dario tuned the radio to Guantanamera and music filled the air—

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

Seven more Saturdays passed and the baby items began to pile up. A crib, a changing table, clothes, and diapers. Emma and Dario spent their Saturdays building furniture, organizing clothes, and dancing to the music of Cuba.

Until on the seventh Saturday, their dancing was interrupted by a bang on the door.

“Miguel! Que pasa?” asked Dario. Their friend looked flustered and sweaty.

“Los rebeldes—Castro—they’ve taken over the capitol. Batista is on the run,” Miguel delivered the bad news between gasps. “The Americans have told me about this happening in other places. They say he’ll round up political prisoners. That they’ll take over the food supply and ration the food, and there won’t be enough for everyone.”

Dario glanced back at his pregnant bride.

“But the Americans,” Miguel continued, “they say they’ll be launching a counter attack. They’re not going to let Castro stay.”

Dario’s temples relaxed.

“In the meantime, you and your wife should come with me.”

Dario looked puzzled. “Didn’t you just say the Americans are coming? Where would we go? Why leave?”

“The American said it could get much worse before it gets better. Emma is pregnant. It’s best if you go to the American base and stay with your sister until this blows over. They sent me here to get you.”

Dario looked at Emma. “It’s what’s best for the baby,” she was decided.

Dario agreed. If his sister sent for them, there was good reason. They packed one suitcase each and left with Miguel. As they walked to the car, she could hear the sounds of celebration. Fireworks lit the wet puddles between the stones in the street and she thought que lindo, mi Cuba.

Before they boarded the ferry, Emma handed Miguel a little black book with a key inside. “Give this to Teresa, would you?” And they left.

From the ferry, Emma watched the moonlight dancing on the water and it reminded her of the waves of silver in her mother's hair.

Three days later, Miguel visited Teresa. He handed her the little black book with a look that said I’m sorry for your loss. Teresa opened the book to a note addressed to her.

Teresa—

We’ve gone to the American base, just until things with this rebellion blow over. The Americans say they will help. Do not worry about us. We’ll be back soon. Watch the flat in the meantime, okay?

With love, your sister.

Miguel handed her the key.

“For the flat?” asked Teresa.

Miguel nodded. “But Castro has confiscated it. They fled, Teresa. He’s exiled them as traitors to Cuba. As long as he’s in power, they won’t be coming back.”

Teresa seemed unphased. “Then it’s a good thing the Americans won’t let that happen,” she said.

“Yes, that’s the spirit,” agreed Miguel, “this will all be over soon.”

His mind drifted to fond memories with Dario, and a warm smile invaded his face. “Did Dario ever tell you how he paid for that flat?” he asked Teresa. She shrugged.

“Ten years ago, he found a young man with a broken leg on the side of the road. He helped him to a doctor. A couple years later, the man repaid him. That man was Fidel Castro.”