The Red Umbrella

I flipped through an old Seventeen magazine for the umpteenth time while I listened to one of my favorite Elvis records. Reading the articles about other teenage girls was one of the few benefits I could see to having taken English for so many years in school. I wished I could read a new issue, but with all of Cuba’s problems with the U.S., there was little chance I’d be seeing any new American magazines at the pharmacy.

The sound of the doorbell broke up the monotony of the day. I tossed aside the magazine and ran downstairs.

“¿Quién es?” I asked at the door.

“Soy yo, Ivette.”

Quickly I unlocked the door and pulled my friend inside. “Thank God you’re here!” I hugged her. “Mamá and Papá have been driving me crazy!”

Ivette smiled. “I don’t know how you’ve survived.” She grabbed my hand and twirled me around. “And look at you … a week without me and you’ve let yourself go! No ribbon around your ponytail and your nails aren’t even painted!” she teased. “We need to do something about this.”

“Yes, please! Save me!” I giggled.

“Lucía, who is it?” Mamá asked from the back porch.

“It’s Ivette! We’re going to my room!” I pushed Ivette up the stairs. I wasn’t sure how Mamá would react to having Ivette here, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

“What’s gotten into you? I didn’t even get a chance to say hello to your mother.” Ivette plopped herself down on my bed.

“Forget her. Let’s talk about more important things, like what you’ve been up to.”

Ivette rummaged through the box of records that sat next to my night table. “Nothing, other than Jóvenes meetings. Here, put this one on.” She gave me a record by Celia Cruz. “And since you don’t want to join us, maybe I shouldn’t tell you what happened today.”

“You know it’s not my choice.” I placed the record-player arm gently on the small forty-five. Music filled the room again. “I’d go if I could.”

Ivette smiled. “Yeah, I know. I’m just teasing. And that’s exactly what Carmen was today. A big tease. She spent the whole time trying to flirt with Manuel, but he didn’t seem to care. Trust me, she’s no competition for you.”

“Have people asked about me?” I picked at my chipped nail polish.

“People? You mean has Manuel asked?” Ivette leaned back on the bed, her body moving in rhythm with the song’s mix of bongo drums and the distinct hollow sound of the claves. “Well, I mentioned that I was coming over, and he said to make sure to tell you about the dance that Jóvenes is sponsoring at the end of the month. It’s a party for everyone who is volunteering to work with the brigades in the countryside. I think he wants to find an excuse to see you before he goes.”

“Really?” I studied her face to make sure she was being serious. Just the thought of dancing with Manuel was enough to make my stomach do a flip.

Ivette nodded.

“Ooh,” I squealed, and jumped up. I ran over to my closet and threw open the doors. “What should I wear? You have to help me pick something out.”

“You sure you can go?”

I pulled out a pink flowered dress and draped it in front of me. I spun around to face her. “Oh, I’m going, just watch me!”

*  *  *  *  *

For the next couple of weeks, I did everything my parents asked without bringing up the Jóvenes meetings. From time to time, Ivette would come over and we’d listen to music. She reassured me that eventually my parents would get used to the soldiers. She said it was like walking into a kitchen after something had burned. At first, the odor almost knocks you over, but after a while, you forget there was ever a bad smell. I could tell this was already happening with Mamá since I was now allowed to go into town by myself to do quick errands.

Finally, the timing was perfect to bring up the dance. I’d caught Mamá humming while she folded some of the laundry.

“Mamá, can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course.” Mamá put aside the clothes that needed to be ironed.

I twisted a long strand of hair around my finger. “I know I’m not supposed to date until I’m sixteen, but I’m allowed to go to dances, right?”

Mamá stopped, looked at me, and smiled. “Well, I suppose so … with a chaperone, of course.”

I decided to take the plunge. “Mamá, a bunch of my friends are going to a dance at the Yacht Club this Saturday. I want to go. There’ll be a bunch of chaperones there.”

“That’s only four days away. Plus, I thought the government closed down the Yacht Club. Called it a symbol of the elite.”

“Yeah, but it reopened as a cultural center. Anyone can go there now.”

Mamá started folding one of Papá’s undershirts. “Humpf, doubt that. If you’re not an ‘appropriate revolutionary’ they won’t let you in. Anyone who dares to disagree with Che or Fidel can’t keep their job, let alone go to a social function.” She picked up another shirt. “But I do remember going to parties there when I was your age. Abuela used to sit in the corner with all the other mothers.” Mamá clutched the shirt against her chest. She had a faraway look in her eyes. “I guess it’s my turn to chaperone you now.”

“So is that a yes?” I wanted to bounce up and down. I didn’t care if Mamá was going to be there too. I was going to dance with Manuel!

“I don’t see why—”

Papá stormed into the room. “Where’s my hammer?”

Mamá and I both jumped. “Fernando, you scared us to death! What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”

“My hammer, where is it?” Papá yanked open a drawer in the cabinet next to the sofa. “This’ll do.” He took out a flat-edge screwdriver.

“Fernando, ¿qué pasó? What has you like this?”

Papá looked at Mamá’s worried face and took a deep breath.

“Nothing, Sonia. Don’t worry. I just don’t have much time. I have to get back to the office right away.” Papá glanced over at me. “Can you go upstairs and make sure your brother isn’t getting into too much trouble?”

“Sure,” I muttered. I’d become used to my parents’ behind-closed-doors conversations. After going up the first few steps, I stopped and crouched down in the stairway. From that vantage point, I couldn’t be seen, but I could still watch and hear a little of what was happening.

Papá moved the wooden coffee table, lifted up the rug, and tapped the tiles underneath with the back of the screwdriver. One of the taps sounded more hollow than all the others. Papá immediately began chiseling around the tile.

“Fernando, por favor, what’s going on? Tell me.”

Papá wouldn’t stop chiseling. “Sonia, they’ve announced that citizens can no longer have any holdings. The government is confiscating everything.” Papá lifted up the tile and placed it onto the rolled-up rug. “Look at this. Me, a banker, hiding money underneath my home because I can’t trust my own bank.” Papá pulled out a bunch of papers from the hole in the floor and waved them in the air. “All our savings in stocks … useless! Now not only are we limited to how much money we can legally have, we can’t even own shares in corporations!” Papá emptied his wallet and shoved some cash into the floor.

“But they can’t do that, can they? Just take it away? We’re investors in those businesses.”

Papá shook his head. “They can and they are.”

“Still, we should keep those papers. Things might change.”

“Ha!” He threw the stock certificates back into the hole. “I’ll keep them just in case, but I’m telling you, they’ll only be reminders of what we once had. What I did do is empty out our safe-deposit box.” Papá put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of jewelry. “Your mother’s ring, my father’s watch, everything.” Papá shook his head. “The idea is that all the wealth should be spread out. So they’re taking from those who have worked their entire lives, like us, keeping some of the money for themselves and then supposedly giving the rest to the poor. Isn’t that wonderful? I’ve worked since I was fifteen just so I can be as poor as the bum who never worked a day in his life. Welcome to Castro’s revolution!”

“Fernando, it can’t be that bad. And having those things here? They could get stolen.” Mamá wrung her hands together.

“Greater chance of it being taken at the bank.” Papá wrapped the jewelry in his handkerchief and placed it into the hole. He put back the loose tile and tapped it down. “Sonia, I need you to go upstairs and get me a couple of pieces of jewelry that you don’t care about. Just in case they check on our box, I want to have something in there.”

Frankie came out of his room and I motioned for him to be quiet. He joined me on the stairs and we both listened together.

“Fernando, isn’t this a bit much? Why would they be interested in us?”

“Sonia, don’t you see? This revolution is all about control. They’re watching me, you, everybody. The soldiers are monitoring everything at the bank. Who comes in, who takes what. They’re going after anyone they think is a threat. I’m not taking sides on any of the issues, but even that could be considered traitorous. I was able to get these things only because a few of us worked together. It felt like I was stealing, and it’s my own property! You have to trust me.”

I watched as Mamá gently stroked the side of Papá’s face. “I do trust you. I’ll get you the jewelry. Should we hide these, too? She pointed to the small diamond earrings she was wearing.

Papá covered her hands with his own. “No, those were your grandmother’s. You’ve worn them since we met. Too many things have changed around here. I don’t want you to change, too.” He pulled Mamá into his arms.

“Ugh, yuck!” Frankie whispered, and returned to his room.

I sat back and tried to absorb everything I’d witnessed. The newspapers had stories about people hoarding money and property. They accused these people of being greedy anti-revolutionaries. I’d read how the revolution wanted the working class to save their money. It was only the lazy rich who had to share with those who had less. So why was Papá so worried? We certainly weren’t rich. Plus, Papá had worked hard every day of his life, and although he wasn’t a fan of the revolution, he most definitely wasn’t an anti-revolutionary. No one could really fault him for trying to protect what was ours. Could they?