"Amara's Letters"

The slow dust of moonlight swirling in the still, lukewarm air; the sedated musky clouds; nothing but the sound of birds fluttering above the dark-shadowed buildings. The sun woke up late, fully blanketing the city by 9:21am–just in time for June solstice to begin. Summer lingered through the cracks in the windows, and swept under the doors–tempting Havanans to linger longer in sleep. Leaving the streets empty––the dust was left to settle, undisturbed.

There was no evidence of life under last night’s full moon. The streets were desolate–rid of nightwalkers, rid of crawling jineteras, rid of ebrios. Saloon doors were shut, burdel signs tucked away in the alleys, even the bodegas and hoteles were locked up with silver, thick-linked chains in crisscross patterns through their entryway handles.

Amara, a jeva of sixteen, was awakened by a ray of sunlight that pushed through the heavy curtains and then penetrated her eyelids–creating a world of red before her until she blinked her eyes open, seeing on a low wooden table, a small envelope in the corner of her now light-yellow room. Next to the envelope, a smaller off-white piece of paper read, “Dear Amara, I have left for Santa Cruz del Sur to visit grandma. Have a great day in the city–here’s what little pocket money I have to give you. I hope you can buy an ice cream or two down by the pier. Besos, Ma.”

It was Amara’s birthday and all she wanted to do was go watch the ships come and go…

June 21, 1933

Mi sweet amor,

I laid on the pier watching the ships come and go as they swept away hundreds of Americanos, only to cart in thousands more. Every single one looking like the one behind them. Blond heads bobbing up and down like the whitewash of a wave–enveloping Old Havana, filling every bar and rooftop with elated screams and stomping feet.

I saw you standing there—with light brown hair--gazing back at the sea. Almost like you appreciated the glistening calm gray-blue over the bustling colorful city behind you.

Something inside of me knew that you were different. There was something in you that I needed to see, needed to know.

I followed you to Sloppy Joe’s where you ate a triple-decker ropa vieja sandwich as slowly as possible. I could tell you were savoring the taste of Cuban delicacy between light draws of your cigarro. I was entranced by the long mahogany liquor shelves behind the bar--stacked to the nines with any alcohol you could name, and a lot more you couldn't.

When I came back to, you had found me...I looked up from the bar to hear you say my hair was beautiful. But my hair had never looked worse. You told me I was fair, but I don’t think I’d ever been more dark. I was hypnotized by your words and those emerald green eyes.

You led me to the Zombie Club where you bought me a drink and chaîned me till I was drunk.

I fell in love that night. With you, Roberto, I fell deeply in love. I wanted you to take me back with you. Back to America--to the place you called “New Jersey”. Oh my summer love. You left so soon, and promised your return.

When, my darling, when will you come and sweep me away?

Tú, Amara

October 21, 1933

Mi amor del verano,

I have walked the pier everyday hoping to see your darker hair and your curious eyes. Staring back at the ocean. I find myself wandering into Joe’s hoping to find you marveling at a ropa vieja. Slow clouds of smoke vanishing above your head. I go to the Zombie Club in hopes you'll grab my hand and spin me like a ballerina until I'm drunk on the scent of your clean, cotton shirt.

Soon after you left, brother enlisted in the military along with other activists from the university. Ma is distraught. He told her that he had been at the Columbia barracks in talks with Pablo Rodríquez and Sergeant Fulgencio Batista. He called himself a “junta”. Claimed fighting alongside Batista was going to earn him plenty of money to send back home. It was for the best, he convinced us.

The white men ebb and flow in and out of Old Havana’s ports. Their round, moon faces glaring at the Castillo De Los Tres Reyes Del Morro, before they turned right, into Port Havana. Where I stood, and waited for you to take me back to America.

Siempre, Amara

February 21, 1934

Mi amor,

What are the tides like in America? Do they look the same? Does the ocean kiss the sand or does it rage like a lion? I wonder what the clouds look like, how the trees feel on my fingers...Is your sky the same shade of blue?

These are the things I wonder about, as I watch this island crumble around me.

Brother’s promise has fallen flat. The lack of money is hurting Ma and we’re unable to support ourselves anymore. I dropped out of college to pick up the slack.

Down main street in Old Havana, there has been a surge of brothels. Business booms at night–Ma said it’s been the loudest decade in all her life. Restaurants are open late; hotels are always full. You’d almost believe our pockets were overflowing. There must be a hole somewhere because they seem to leak faster than they’re filled.

I must confess something, Roberto––I have become a jinetera.

I am so sorry. I hope you are not disappointed in me. The owner of Baño Roto saw me on the pier and asked me to join his “club”. I said no at first, but then I thought of the money.

I want to make enough to hop on one of those magnificent cruise ships and join you in New Jersey; so we could live the American dream together!

Besos, Amara

September 21, 1935

Sweety,

Oh, mi amor, you came back! It’s been nearly two years, but now you’ve returned.

You didn’t recognize me in Baño Roto when you came in yesterday. It’s been a while so I understand. You requested some cheap girl to give you the go-around. I reluctantly watched as you slipped her a generous amount of pesos in her underwear.

I followed you to Sloppy Joe’s after my shift ended. You were busy with a briefcase and twenty men. Ordered roja vieja cubanos and lit everyone’s cigar. You are a mayor now, I heard someone say––“El alcalde de New Jersey!”

You cocked your head back, the others followed––“Ya know? I outta bring this back to Jersey! Everyone’ll get a kick outta this, won’t they, Max?” I couldn't hear what Max said over the laughter of the crowd.

Then I lost you in the fray. Everyone wanted a piece of you–and you had no time to notice me.

That’s okay, I’ll try again tomorrow.

Still waiting, Amara

September 27, 1935

Roberto,

The trees were anchored against the force of the storm. Over 1500 people, including me, have migrated away from Santa Cruz del Sur. All squished in like sardines rolling away from the coast on two thin lines.

Brother is already in the capital. Probably discussing some sort of new scheme with the Juntas. Ma did not get on the train like I thought and I haven’t seen her since we left the house. With every passing day, the body count climbs and with every passing minute, I pray Ma hasn’t become another black tally mark on a white clipboard.

Amara

September 30, 1935

R,

Something is stirring in the capital.

While Cubans on the coast are engulfed by a hurricane wiping towns like specs of dust at over 100 miles per hour. Our own rage backlashing in a fury of harsh tears sent from the very heaven that’s supposed to protect us.

Roberto, I need to get out of here., Everyone is dying and rotting under all the concrete and rubble. I bet you’re not dying and rotting in New Jersey. Will you come find me if I fall?

~A

Oct 2, 1935

Oh Robert,

I was forced to wait a couple days until the railways were back on and running. I didn’t think we’d make it as the lines shook and shuddered all the way home. When the train halted at Santa Cruz del Sur, I sprinted straight for home.

It was in ruins. If I hadn’t known there was a town–let alone a simple house–that ever stood erect in this area, you’d think this land had always been just a long field.

Still no sign of Ma.

What will I do, Roberto?

Yours, Amara

Days later, after searching far and wide, Amara learns that her mother was crushed by debris in the hurricane. With this news, she was forced to find work at a brothel that supported room and board. In the middle of Cuba’s highest peak in crime, due to Batista’s organized schemes, Amara was depicted by the industry until she was nothing but a body that moved enough to pass as a money-making jinetera.

By the year 1940, Batista rose to power and the country was divided. The wealthy were abandoning their property and fleeing to Florida. Amara’s brother was killed during a dispute in the capital. Rumor has it that he joined the revolt alongside Castro and when Batista caught wind, it was over for him. Though Amara never believed that idea and lived the rest of her days fighting for Robert until he was just a fragment of her old teenage mind.

Eventually, Amara caught wind that the mayor of New Jersey died of a heart attack at the young age of forty-two, and she soon followed a very similar fate.

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"Amara's Letters" is based on a Cuban novel I studied in college with a character of the same name. Although the ending very rushed, I take pride in this one mostly because I spent a good deal of time on researching actual restaurants, their menus, and even their patrons!