I was the last one to arrive, born on 2 June 1973. My father said that I was born at night and my mother said it was in the daytime, so I have never known the exact hour of my birth. My mother had to have a caesarean because I was coming out feet first. According to my father I swallowed some of the amniotic fluid and nearly died because the nurse took so long to attend to me, finally paying attention only after my father threatened her with a pistol, shouting, ‘If you don’t put him on a drip right now, I’ll kill you!’ The nurse, trembling with fear, inserted the drip via my nostrils.
‘And that’s why your nose is like it is,’ my father always told me.
‘He got his wide nose from you, not from the damn drip,’ my mother would reply, rolling her eyes and assuring me that the incident with the gun was just a story my father had made up.
Aunt Lucia, unlike Aunt Mireya, treated us all equally. Perhaps that is why we loved her more, or maybe it was her sweet, retiring nature. She did not visit us frequently, but when she did she would hold us and play with us all without discrimination. Sometimes, when my father was working, they would all visit us at once: Lucia with her tiny baby Jennie, Mireya with her husband Frank and her daughter, Corairis, and Granny. Everyone would sit in the wicker armchairs and on the hard chairs from around the dining-room table. Mireya would take Berta onto her knees and Marilín and I would be left sitting on the floor. Without saying anything, Lucia would pass little Jennie to my mother and would beckon to Marilín and me to go and sit on her lap, which we would do, taking one of her knees each. Apart from my mother, she was the only one who held us.
I was seven years old when they all came to live with us. It was towards the end of 1980 and Cuba had opened its borders to anyone who wanted to leave. My mother kept trying to persuade my father that my grandmother, two aunts and cousin Corairis (Mireya and Frank had split up, and Lucia’s little baby was staying with her father) should come to live with us while they awaited the arrival of their exit permits for Venezuela, where relatives would help them make their way to Miami. But every time my mother mentioned the matter, my father would swallow hard, clench his iron fists inside his pockets and mutter, ‘I don’t know if I can.’ Eventually, though, he relaxed his hands, calloused from so much clenching, and managed to stifle his displeasure.
Papá moved back to the living room and I returned to the single bed with my mother so that Aunt Mireya, Granny and Corairis could have the double bed. Marilín moved into the bottom bunk with Berta so Aunt Lucia could have her bed, although this arrangement did not last long. Gentle, loving Lucia developed schizophrenia and was admitted to hospital, where, two weeks later, she took her own life. She was twenty-six years old. Soon after, the paperwork that was needed to apply for a visa arrived from our Venezuelan relatives, who, in light of the tragedy, had agreed to host everyone, including my mother and my beloved white sister, Berta. Everyone, except the blacks. My mother and sister decided to stay with Marilín, my father and me, but it was very painful for my mother to be separated from the rest of her family in this way.
I understood very little of life and much less of what was happening in the house, but I remember the day that my mother seemed to change into a different person, the moment she said farewell to her mother on the balcony of our apartment in Los Pinos.
My mother had not eaten for days, so anxious was she about the approach of the Friday when they all would part. She knew the day would arrive whatever happened, but she was still hoping for a miracle.
‘I don’t know what you’re going to do, María, but I’m leaving. This is your last opportunity!’ Aunt Mireya said to her.
It was unlikely that they would ever see each other again. For all any of them knew, Granny would die in exile and my mother would not be at her side to hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her brow when Death arrived to carry off her body and her love for ever.
On the other hand, my mother had us, her children, a different kind of love. What could she do? It was an impossible situation and she lost either way.
‘Mireya, why don’t you think again?’ she pleaded with her sister. ‘You don’t know what’s waiting for you there … Mami is too old for all these changes, you’ll be better off here.’
‘What … Better off here? No way! You can stay if you want to, María. I’m taking Mami.’
And she did.
The whole of the neighbourhood witnessed the parting. A car was waiting opposite the door of our downstairs neighbour Candida’s house. The dogs stood still, watching, as did the families of Cristobál and Delia, along with Milli, Chinchán and Kenia from over the way and Diana and El Chino; they were all there. Many sat on the street corners, on the walls and on the edges of the pavements. Ramona, the religious neighbour on the right, was sitting in her rocking chair, as were Omar and his family, the neighbours on the left. My mother came out onto the balcony with her arms around my grandmother’s neck, resting her head against my grandmother’s cheek, trying to show a brave face. She did not manage it. Her fear was so palpable that even the dogs could smell it.
We were waiting below next to the car. My father had already stowed the suitcases away. He had his right arm draped across Marilín’s shoulders and her arm in turn was draped across mine. I was holding Berta, my white sister, by the hand.
‘Berta, come here!’ said my aunt Mireya.
Berta let go of me and went over to her. My aunt hugged and kissed her then whispered something in her ear and Berta began to cry. My cousin Corairis approached and gave me a hug and a kiss then did the same with my father and with Marilín. Both girls wept. My father and I kept our composure.
My mother had cried out all her tears. She started to come down the stairs, very slowly, leading my grandmother by the arm. When they reached the bottom they embraced again, my mother’s eyes glinting as the full glare of the sun shone onto her damp eyelids. Some of the neighbours had tears in their eyes, even the men. They had probably been through the same thing themselves or were moved by the thought that they might go through it one day.
‘Mami, get a move on, we’ll be late.’
Aunt Mireya shoved the last suitcase into the car and turned to say goodbye to my mother. She hugged her tightly. My mother’s face crumpled. My aunt said they would write, and with that went to hug and kiss my sister Berta. She gave Marilín and me a kiss but no hug, and accorded my father a distant handshake; then she bundled my grandmother and Corairis into the car and slammed the door. The engine revved.
Mamá was left standing in the middle of the street, a shrunken shadow of herself, with swollen eyes and hollow cheeks, watching the car as it drove into the distance. Her gaze did not waver until it finally disappeared, then she turned to stare at her left hand in which she was holding a little blue book: her passport.
The promised letters never arrived.
I was always called Yuli in the neighbourhood, a name my sister Berta had given me. My father, however, had a different story.
‘Yuli is the spirit of an Indian brave from the tribe of the Sioux Indians in North America, who is with you all the time and whom I talk to every day. That’s how you got your nickname and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
My mother would sigh heavily and roll her eyes up to the ceiling but she would not say anything.
By the age of seven I was already known on my block as a fruit thief. My scheme was simple and executed with precision. Our building stood on a corner where four streets intersected. Directly opposite was Rene’s house, diagonally opposite was Zoilita’s house and on the other corner