Las Criadas de la Habana

The Maids Of Havana. Myth And History In Literary Reconstruction
Pedro Perez Sarduy

THE MAIDS OF HAVANA, is a novel whose point of departure is the life of a maid in pre-revolutionary Cuba. This unschooled black woman starts writing about the two worlds of wealthy whites and poor black women in their service, with the latter's dignity.

They were years of great upheaval: the rich were leaving, the poor were being given new opportunities. For Marta, the main character and many friends, it had become a thing of the past that they had been maids in homes in Havana's elegant residential districts, that they had paid extortionate rates for their wretched slums, and that neither they nor their children could harbor hopes for the future, much less a college education.

Their world was changing, but they were still locked in the world of the slum. The daily gossip and the stories flowed thick and fast. The fresco of various periods -since a teenager in the 1930'; a wife and then a divorcee through the early years of the revolution, to a widow and grand-mother in the mid nineties- are narrated from the optic of these women, in a series of separate yet inter-related stories linking new generations of maids.

They, and their lives, are the windows onto the interweaving of class, race, gender and nation, in stories written, as told by Marta herself. She fuses what happened to her and others of her kind, to reconstruct two worlds: that of the wealthy white and that of the poor -mostly black women- at their beck and call, but seen from the view point of the latter, in a blend of fantasy and reality. It can be argued that today, after thirty five years of revolution, Cuba is demographically and socioculturally far less white than it was in 1959. At the same time, if the initial exodus of the 1960 was predominantly white Hispanic and moneyed, that of the 1980 Mariel boat lift and since, has been more mixed, but still overwhelmingly white. Gracielita, the daughter of one of Marta's friends, is a young mulatto woman who in April 1980 went into the Peruvian Embassy in Havana with her white Cuban boyfriend and several thousand others seeking asylum on their way to the "land of opportunities". They subsequently left the country through the boatlift from the port of Mariel, to the west of Havana bound to Miami.

Gracielita has a college degree provided by the revolution. She hadn't had to work in Cuba as a servant like her mother and Marta, but she finds temporary work in the home of a family whom her own mother had once worked in 1950s Havana. Why had she wanted to leave? What became of Graciela?

At this point, the narration of Marta becomes the "voice" of the young and pretty mulata Gracielita, who hopelessly collides with the social values of the United States, above all in everything related to racial relations -a perspective that had never previously entered into the social consciousness of this young woman. The new friendships that Gracielita makes in the US offer her distinct and heretofore unknown choices. For example, she at last decides to return to Cuba on vacation. The preparations for the trip and her visit coincide with the exodus during the summer of 1994, an occasion in which thousands of people of all ages and racial backgrounds fled Cuba by sea. After two weeks in Havana, Gracielita returns to the United States. Is a pattern of human relations emerging which displays similarities to that of pre-revolutionary Cuba, despite more than three decades of revolution?

Update 8/18/00: publishing deal signed, novel being translated to French and English

Update 3/1/02: novel recently featured at the Havana International Book Fair 2002

Publisher Contact

Editorial Plaza Mayor, Puerto Rico
1500 Ave. Ponce de Leon
Local 2 - El Cinco
San Juan, Puerto Rico 00926

PO Box 3148
Guaynabo, PR 00970-3148

Ibis Rouge Editions
Chemin de la Levée
97351 MATOURY Guyane française
Tél. 05 94 35 95 66
Fax 05 94 35 95 68

Remarks by Nancy Morejón to present the novel Las criadas de La Habana by Pedro Pérez Sarduy at the 11th Havana International Book Fair, 15 February 2002

I didn’t think I would be the one to have the exceptional pleasure of presenting to Cuban readers Las criadas de La Habana (The Maids of Havana), a first incursion into the genre of the novel by the poet Pedro Pérez Sarduy. I was both very pleased and very enthusiastic about accepting the invitation from the Puerto Rican publisher, Plaza Mayor, to present a book by one who is part of my literary family.

In the Cuban narrative tradition, it is not common for poets to write short stories and novels. However, around the middle of the twentieth century major Cuban poets did begin to publish narrative genres, and I would like to begin this presentation by noting all the narrative of the sixties owes to one writer, the poet Pablo Armando Fernández. Pablo Armando’s narrative – a lesser known area of his work - is what made possible the birth of the novel I have the honor of presenting to you all, The Maids of Havana.

As I said before, Pedro is part of my literary family. He was born in Santa Clara in 1943. He studied French Language and Literature at the University of Havana, where we were both students. Literature was not his sole interest. For a number of reasons, he followed in that Caribbean tradition whereby we writers are rarely professionals in the literary field - we may be veterinarians, photographers, or sailors. He himself had many occupations, but one in particular was journalism, from which we now know comes the freshness of his approach to fiction.

I believe in the power of the word, and, while this is the novel of a poet,
I must again say that The Maids of Havana is born of literary experience grounded in Pablo Armando’s Los niños se despiden (The Children Bid Farewell, awarded 1968 Casa de las Américas Prize), and at the same time grafted on the literary phenomenon of the time we know as the testimonial novel.

I think the poet who wrote Surrealidad is able to move in and out of the literary conventions of this technique, and, above all, the ethic of authors regarding their chosen characters and spaces, while still respecting the advances in fiction in the Spanish- speaking world and certain forms of the novel, conceived as open, so open as for its lightness of touch to draw on contemporary female discourse.

In this, we have much to thank him for, and not only for the theme of a Black Cuban woman as exceptional as Marta, who, naturally, bears close relation to his mother, born and raised in the city of Santa Clara. In her youth, she went to Havana as a maid, shaped by values that in turn shaped this young writer.

I believe that in this novel there are elements that are fundamental, because it remains literary while at the same time registering the popular voice of certain women’s worlds that at times seem closed and far apart from the world of men.

This is an extraordinary contribution because it is a chronicle of an un-chronicled social psychology whose complexity of racial and gender relations is of a richness yet to be appreciated. I truly believe it’s going to be very hard to classify this novel.

What is important is that it is sheer joy to read, and with a boldness of expression in taking on the conflicts of Cuban society today, of Cuban culture, the experience of migrations and the existence of such diverse poles of that culture which is to be found disseminated throughout the universe in the knowledge that, today, there is only one Cuban culture.

Don’t miss out on The Maids of Havana. Forget all you’ve read and written about maids around the world, especially in this Third World. Forget Jean Genet and read Pedro Pérez Sarduy.

Havana International Book Fair
February 15, 2002

[Translated by Solimar Otero]

Nancy Morejón sobre Las Criadas

Palabras de Nancy Morejon
Feria Internacional del Libro, La Habana 2 de Febrero 2002

No pense que iba a ser la primera presentadora que ibamos a tener el gusto de introducir al lector cubano en el marco de esta Feria Internacional del Libro de La Habana. Con mucha alegria y con mucho entusiasmo acepte la invitacion de la editorial a presentar este libro de alguien que forma practicamente parte de mi familia literaria, por decirlo de alguna manera. No es usual que los poetas escriban narrativa. Y hay una tradicion cubana de la que debemos estar muy atentos que a mediados de los años ’60, a mediados del siglo XX poetas importantes cubanos comenzaron a publica narrativa. Y yo no queria dejar de comenzar hacer esta presentacion, sin recordar todo lo que esa narrativa de los años de 1960 y ’70 le debe a un escritor, a un poeta como Pablo Armando. Fernandez. Porque la narrativa de PAF, que es una de las zonas de su obra menos conocida, es la narrativa que hace posible que exista esta novela que tengo el honor de presentar a Uds. Las Criadas de La Habana. Como dije Pedro forma parte de mi familia literaria, nacio en Sta. Clara en 1943, curso una licenciatura en Lengua y Literatura Francesa en la Universidad de La Habana, en la epoca en la que yo tambien estudiaba en la Universidad. Por diversas razones Pedro no solo se dedico a la literatura, sino siguiendo esa tradicion caribeña de que los escritores practicamente nunca somos profesionales –sino que podemos ser veterinarios, fotografos o marineros- , Pedro opto por simultanear una serie de oficios. Yo creo en la palabra. Independientemente de que esta es la novela de un poeta, debo decir que “Las Criadas de La Habana” nace, se desprende de esa tradición que fundo P.A.F. con Los Niños se Despiden, pero al mismo tiempo se entronca con un fenomeno de esa literatura que de esa epoca que es lo que nosotros conocemos como la novela testimonio. Yo pienso que Pedro ha sabido entrar y salir a los recursos literarios que conforman el testimonio, sin dejar de respetar las formas de la ficcion y las formas de la novela concebida como un hecho abierto. Entonces, hay mucho que agradecerle, en el sentido no solo del tema que es un de una cubana, Marta, que naturalmente tiene alguna relacion con su madre, su madre de Santa Clara que despues vino para La Habana como criada y que mantuvo toda una vida los valores que formaron a ese joven escritor. Yo creo que en esta novela hay elementos que son fundamentales porque no deja de ser literaria y al mismo tiempo no deja de registrar el habla coloquial de los mundos femeninos que a veces parecen estar tan cerrrados, y que a veces parecen estar tan ajenos al mundo del hombre. Esto es un aporte extraordinario porque es una cronica y realmente creo que va a ser muy dificil clasificar esta novela. Lo importante es que su lectura es absolutamente amena, su enfrentamiento, la valentia para enfrentar los conflictos de la sociedad cubana de hoy, de la cultura cubana, de la experiencia de las migraciones, de la existencia de polos tan diversos de esa cultura que se encuentran diseminados por el mundo, pero que tenemos que aceptar y entender hoy por hoy de que la cultura cubana es una sola. No se pierdan Las Criadas de La Habana. Olviden todo lo que hayan podido escribir sobre criadas en el mundo moderno, olviden a [Jean] Genet y lean a Pedro Perez Sarduy.

Salon Internationale du Livre de La Havane
Remarques de Nancy Morejon a propos de "Les Bonnes de La Havana."
15 Février, 2002

Je ne pensais pas que ce serait moi qui aurais le plaisir exceptionnel de présenter aux lecteurs cubains Les bonnes de La Havane, première incursion dans le roman du poète Pedro Pérez Sarduy.

Avec beaucoup de joie et beaucoup d'enthousiasme, j'ai accepté l'invitation de la maison d‚édition Plaza Mayor, de Porto Rico, pour présenter le livre de quelqu'un qui fait partie de ma famille littéraire. Dans la tradition littéraire cubaine, la coutume selon laquelle les poètes écrivent des contes et des romans n'est pas habituelle, ne prédomine pas. Toutefois, nous devons être très attentifs au fait que, vers le milieu du XXe siècle, d'importants poètes cubains ont commencé à publier des romans. Et je ne voulais pas présenter cette œuvre sans rappeler tout ce que cette tradition du roman des années soixante doit à un auteur, à un poète comme Pablo Armando Fernández. Parce que le roman de Pablo Armando, qui est une des zones de son oeuvre les moins connues, est le roman qui rend possible la naissance de ce roman que j‚ai l'honneur de présenter devant vous, Les Bonnes de La Havane.

Comme je l'ai dit précédemment, Pedro fait partie de ma famille littéraire. Il est né à Santa Clara en 1943. Il a suivi les cours de licence en Langue et Littérature Françaises à l'Université de La Havane. Nous y avons été condisciples. Pour diverses raisons, Pedro s'est consacré non seulement à la littérature mais - en suivant cette tradition des Caraïbes où les écrivains ne sont presque jamais des professionnels de la littérature mais peuvent être vétérinaires, photographes ou marins - il a exercé des métiers très variés dont un en particulier, le journalisme, auquel nous savons maintenant qu‚il doit la fraîcheur et l'optique de sa fiction.

Je crois dans le pouvoir du mot et indépendamment du fait qu‚il s‚agit du roman d'un poète, je dois dire de nouveau que Les bonnes de La Havane naît et se dégage de cette expérience littéraire qu'a fondée Pablo Armando avec Los niños se despiden (Prix Casa de las Américas, 1968), mais, en même temps, il se rattache, d'une certaine manière, à un phénomène de la littérature de cette époque, que nous connaissons comme le roman - témoignage. Je pense que le poète de Surrealidad a su entrer, et sortir, des ressources littéraires qui conviennent à cette technique et, surtout, à l'éthique de leurs auteurs face aux espaces et aux personnages choisis. Sans omettre de respecter les conquêtes de la fiction dans le monde du parler hispanique, comme certaines formes du roman, conçu comme un fait ouvert, tellement ouvert qu'il admet, dans son agréable légèreté, beaucoup du discours féminin contemporain. Pour tout ceci, on doit l‚en remercier beaucoup; non seulement pour le sujet qui choisit une noire cubaine tellement particulière, comme l'est Marta, qui, naturellement, garde une relation étroite avec sa mère, née et élevée dans la ville de Santa Clara. Dans sa jeunesse, elle émigra à La Havane pour y être bonne, en ayant forgé les valeurs qui formèrent ce jeune écrivain.

Je crois que dans ce roman il y a des éléments qui sont fondamentaux parce qu'il ne cesse d'être littéraire et en même temps il s‚attache à rendre le parler populaire de certains mondes féminins qui paraissent tantôt tellement fermés, tantôt tellement étrangers au monde de l'homme. Cela est un apport extraordinaire parce que c‚est une chronique d'une psychologie sociale inédite dont l'écheveau de relations raciales et de genre est d'une richesse encore inappréciable. Réellement, je crois qu'il va être très difficile de classer ce roman. L‚important est que sa lecture est absolument délicieuse alors qu‚elle traite de la vaillance à affronter les conflits de la société cubaine d'aujourd'hui, de la culture cubaine, de l'expérience des migrations, de l'existence de pôles tellement divers de cette culture qui sont disséminés dans l'univers, sachant qu‚au jour d‚aujourd'hui la culture cubaine est seule et unique.

Ne manquez pas Les bonnes de La Havane. Oubliez tout ce que vous avez pu lire et écrire sur les bonnes, en n‚importe quel lieu de la planète, en particulier dans ce Tiers Monde. Oubliez Jean Genet et lisez Pedro Pérez Sarduy.
(Traduit par C. Clemya)

Commentary

La Visión Imponderable de Marta, la Doméstica por Tomás González Pérez, 7/27/05

La Visión Imponderable de Marta, la Doméstica
(Impresiones después de mi lectura de la novela
Las Criadas de La Habana de Pedro Pérez Sarduy).

por Tomás González Pérez.

Aquella mujer, me recibió en una estrecha habitación de las múltiples cuarterías de uno de los barrios más populoso de La Habana, El Cerro. Todo era limpio, como si la habitación acabara de emerger del fondo del mar.
Aquel día coincidieron muchas cosas en la vida de aquella negra de pulcritud sublimada. Al verme se puso muy alegre. Yo tenía para ella toda la importancia que se le da en una casa a un hijo mayor. Para mí fue una de las muchas madres que me colmaron de ternuras y mimos. Ese día llegaba su hijo Pedro de Londres; pero hubo un incidente. Confundieron a nuestro Pedro con otra persona que se había marchado ilegalmente del país. Todo se aclaró convenientemente. Un chubasco de excusas; pero el suceso fue doloroso para una madre que ve el incidente a través de la cristalera oscura de la aduana de un aeropuerto. No podía explicarse lo que estaba sucediéndole a su hijo. Además, lo peor sucedería apenas unos minutos antes de mi llegada al hogar de Marta. Ella acababa de salir de un ritual –recibimiento de Olokun-, y al llegar a la puerta de su casa, se le había resbalado la tinaja de las manos. Había hecho este ritual porque se sentía enferma, y la ceremonia le aseguraba prolongar un poco más la vida.

Y la tercera complicación me la expresó en un aparte que conmigo hiciera: había descubierto la infidelidad en el que era su marido.

La limpieza, reitero, iba con ella siempre. Limpiaba la vida que la rodeaba para no ensuciar la íntima vida, la de los sentimientos dulces para todas las cosas. Nadie le dio la condición filosófica, perdón, digo que ningún estudio; sino la cultura de la diáspora, la sabiduría de su cultura oral, tanto la contada como la interpretada. Los mitos, las fábulas y leyendas de dioses, hombres y animales constituyen la cultura contada de muchos pueblos; mientras que los signos o letras de los oráculos han de ser interpretados y reinterpretados por sacerdotes y por el hombre común. Hay como un sonambulismo en Cuba desde siempre. El cubano es, como lo planteara Lydia Cabrera, un ser que, en cuanto animista, sabe establecer contacto con el misterio cotidiano. El cubano va de trascendencia en trascendencia; para sí mismo cada cubano es lo más importante porque cada hombre es morada de dioses. Esta suerte de sonambulismo, de andar en la vida como en las rutas de un sueño, sólo que con los ojos abiertos, desmesurados, nos hace definir a nuestro país como una tierra en trance permanente; no porque el cambio sea su último objetivo, sino por el contrario, porque el trance, esa experiencia cotidiana, es el único modo que tenemos para lidiar contra el olvido.

Días después Marta, nuestra “Mami” murió.

Esta novela aparece en un momento de incertidumbre globalizada. Ya no hay nada más que dudas. La creencia en las cosas se ha evaporado. No hay fe verdadera; no hay nada en qué creer. La transvaloración de Nietszche ha tomado las riendas de las polarizaciones. La dialéctica no puede seguir fundamentada en la irreconciliación de los contrarios. Los años cincuenta tuvieron un brote de perdida de identidad. El cielo se confundió
con la tierra. Los santos entraron en un mestizaje con los bandidos. Se hicieron cangaceiros. Trataban de hacer el reparto divino de las riquezas del mundo, arrebatándoselas a los ricos para aliviar pobrezas. Dios y el Diablo se veían uno a la luz del sol. Y el Quijote se reveló por sus actos trascendentes en el manual esotérico de las guerrillas actuales escrito por Miguel de Cervantes, un escritor manco en una batalla en Lepanto.

El Che, así como toda su generación latinoamericana, había encontrado, por obligada lectura, lo esotérico de la Revolución en una mística de convertir en trascendencia lo cotidiano. El Che cabalgaba en un Rocinante; pero no era solamente un hidalgo de caballería, era a la vez su escudero. Sancho le andaba por las entrañas, cuando le fuera que eran gigantes los molinos de viento del capitalismo que tenía que enfrentar. Y, al convertir su ideología en lucha redentora de los avasallados y oprimidos del Tercer Mundo, logró el milagro de despojar al Tercer Mundo de su origen geográfico para convertirse en una ideología de la realización por medio de revoluciones sui géneris.

La postmodernidad no tiene un origen estético o de espacio arquitectónico, en todo caso éste último es la manifestación de una espacialidad universal metafísica. Cualquier espacio es el espacio de una trascendencia. Se puede hacer levitar la mole del Pentágono del mismo modo que el Quijote combate contra molinos de viento que su mente esquizoide ha transformado en gigantes. De este encuentro siempre se sale vencedor porque el suceso se convierte en acontecimiento, y sólo corresponde a los mitos la reiteración que hacen los pueblos para explicarse lo que sucede en su tiempo. El mito enfrenta las desgracias con el paréntesis de una saga.

Habla por sí misma esa dichosa edad y tiempos dichosos aquellos, la que se busca como tierra prometida, y que creemos que nuestras acciones empecinadas, nos harán darnos cara a cara con esa quimera, sonido y memoria, fantasía bucólica de un tesoro que ya no es.

Marta, un personaje que no es personaje por dos motivos: primero, porque no es una tipificación ni máscara característica económica, y segundo, porque es esencia que se descubre a sí misma en el momento en que se describe, o se descontruye.

¿Esencia de qué? De lo cubano fuera de la ideología. Un ser sin sueños, despierta, viva como los güijes, seres transparentes que se materializan; a pesar de que sigan siendo un misterio.
Y Marta es el misterio de un enfrentamiento entre lo social impuesto por vasallaje y el intento de una liberación esencial. Marta no es quijotesca, actúa con la objetividad inocente de Sancho, pero no duerme en el balanceo de la cabalgadura de un asno, sino que le anda a los gigantes por dentro. Marta espera en una especie de distanciamiento brechtiano, porque su espera es desde una cultura, la de la diáspora afroamericana.

Siempre he creído que la santería es más una filosofía que una religión; más una formulación psícológica para encontrar lo sagrado en lo humano que una ideología que pretende crear, por medio de disciplina o represión, un hombre virtuoso.

Marta se hace la Marta-esencia a medida que cuenta y recuenta un mito; pero no como lo contaría un sacerdote de Ifá comprometido como está con la recreación de los mitos; sino como quien se limpia de la incidencia de una realidad atropellada por involucrar al nuevo mundo americano en un laberinto racional cartesiano, o en esa convulsión desesperada que es el aristotelismo de irse por lo que parezca más virtuoso.
Marta es una rebeldía, una aceptación de sí misma, elaborada por la ética de una ancestralidad, por una voz interior, por una esquizofrenia legitimada por una cultura de palabras vivas. Ella es el griot de un proceso. Narra viviendo, involucrada; pero objetiva, sin compromiso, fluida, careciendo, de modo excepcional, del resentimiento inherente, y legítimo, de la diáspora a la que pertenece.
La diáspora afroamericana ha sido mal interpretada hasta por sabios como don Fernando Ortiz, cuando vio sincretismo, en lo que no es más que camouflage. Los santos católicos no son más que recipientes de un contenido subversivo, de una memoria ancestral, reanimada y sostenida por la oralidad propia de las tierras de procedencia.

La novela no sólo es atractiva porque sea su prosa la de una crónica periodística, sino porque está sometida a una interiorización que se resuelve en emotividad contenida, inteligente, como cuando uno recibe una enseñanza, y puede convertirla en la fabulación de una experiencia que aún está en espera de solución.

¿Dónde ha de encontrar el mundo de Marta su verdadera integración? ¿En los que se quedan? ¿En los que se van? ¿En los negros? ¿En los mulatos que estiran la goma “ya que ser blanco es todavía una carrera”? ¿En los blancos que temen que el país se ennegrezca como Haití? Pero aunque este no sea el asunto principal de esta magnífica novela, le envuelve por todas partes. Es como una inducción secreta para que el lector elabore un juicio íntimo que enlace con el juicio íntimo del autor.

La criada Marta sigue limpiando a fondo los oscuros rincones de una realidad que no puede asumir, porque, a pesar de las buenas intenciones, ninguno de los dos, ni Sancho ni el Quijote, tenían como lo principal en su aventura la reivindicación de Marta, mujer y negra.

De esencia a esencia es, más que comunicación, la comunión de lo ineludible humano.

La novela está elaborada por el amor al mestizaje. Marta es ante todo, y a pesar de todo, cubana. Sólo el negro, siendo ser discriminado, rechazado por los que creen en la superioridad de su blancura, puede hacer del Nuevo Mundo el mundo de amor y paz que todos buscamos, el “con todos y para el bien de todos” martiano.

La amenidad con que está escrita esta novela, con una trayectoria parabólica, desnuda su elocuencia épica en una heroína que, siendo el resultado de una simbiosis, pues el autor se abandona, se deja cautivar, hasta la metamorfosis, en sentido inverso a la del Orlando de Virginia Wolf, que convierte su relato desde la omnipresencia de su masculinidad en el feminismo militante de una negra que se siente negra en un mundo aún sin integración real; pues Marta sigue en la “periferia nietzscheana” contribuyendo a la inmensa cultura del Nuevo Mundo, sin perder la identidad en las “mil mesetas” de Deleuze y Guattari.

La Marta que está en el final de esta novela, impone su forma de espera. Ahí, en lo inconcluso, es Marta toda la literatura, anunciando que los verbos posibles se conjuran en su boca, la duda no será la relativista, más bien sus apoyaturas habrá que extraerlas de un resentimiento visceral contra un sincretismo desarrollado, a pesar de todas sus buenas intenciones, dentro de una ideología aún catequista, que trata de llegar a la definición de un mestizaje por temor a que todo desemboque en una revolución al estilo de la de Haití.

La minuciosa descripción de las calles de Villaclara, ciudad que llega a ser, a mediados del siglo XX, un indiscutible centro cultural abastecido por profesores que son excedencia de la urbe capitalina, dedicada más a la nocturnidad y a las riquezas de casinos, burdeles y gangster, que irrumpieron con sus levitas y trajes a la hechura en las tertulias y conspiraciones de los parques, restaurantes, bibliotecas, centros de estudios como la Escuela Normal, el Instituto, la Escuela de Artes Plásticas, sociedades de blancos y negros, logias, capítulos de fraternidades secretas y, sobre todo, una Universidad que no desatendía la letras a favor de un desarrollo agrícola; sino que propiciaba la búsqueda en todas las esferas del arte.

Pero aquella polvorienta ciudad, con sólo alejarse de su centro, ya exhibía las desolaciones de la sabana, con campos rasos, sin vegetación, sin cuencas profundas; donde sólo las tormentas te traían la humedad salada de lejanas costas marinas.

La extrema sensibilidad y la connotación del reto que es Marta, hace que estemos en presencia de un documento valioso no sólo porque nos echa de bruces ante nuestra identidad; o porque nos haga saludar con reverencia de iyabó (iniciado en la “santería”); sino también, por sus juegos formales, como el ya enunciado donde el autor-médium es el que se eleva, el que se diluye en el éter; mientras el difunto encarnado se materializa, se concreta para ser inmortal, que es el recurso de nuestra oralidad reiterativa (Lyotard) de lo ancestral que “baja” para quedarse definitivamente entre nosotros.

Hay algo más del perfume que deja esta lectura, y es que Marta se hace duende, diosa, divinidad y con ello el don de lo eterno se magnifica. No sé; pero al final del libro está Marta con sus ojos brillantes, observándome, y diciéndome sin palabras, y sin perder la sonrisa:

–“Así están las cosas”.

27 de julio de 2005

Reviewed by Dina De Luca
Neumann College, 3/06

Pedro Pérez Sarduy. Las criadas de La Habana. San Juan, Puerto Rico: Editorial Plaza Mayor,
2001, 294 pp.

(Cortesia de Afro-Hispanic Review donde fue originalmente publicado en el VOL.25, Numero 1
SPRING 2006. VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY)

La práctica autobiográfica es una forma de validación del discurso narrativo. Si le añadimos a esta afirmación que las autobiografías de mujeres se caracterizan por la discontinuidad y la fragmentación narrativa debido a que los diferentes papeles que le han tocado desempeñar a la mujer no se prestan a la continuidad discursiva, entonces resulta interesante cómo, intencional o impremeditadamente, la primera novela del poeta, crítico y autor cubano, Pedro Pérez Sarduy, incluye estos elementos definitorios en su texto. En este sentido, Las criadas de La Habana se adhiere a lo que podría considerarse un nuevo hito en la reivindicación del discurso literario femenino afro-hispano, a pesar de no ser éste la intención fundamental de la novela.

Las criadas de La Habana es una novela autobiográfica en la que la narradora-autora, Marta, una mujer negra, en la soledad de sus años decide escribir lo que ella denomina sus “memorias.” Pero esta excusa como explicación del texto aparece casi al final de la novela, en el que la discontinuidad narrativa obliga a Marta a aludir a la razón por la cual escribe. Después de la muerte de su segundo marido, quien la había dejado por otra mujer más joven, la estoica Marta confiesa: “Fue entonces que encontré sosiego en mis memorias y volví a escribir un poco sobre las cosas que me habían pasado a lo largo de los años, quizás debido en parte a la influencia de mi hijo y las cartas larguísimas que nos escribíamos” (241).

Las criadas de La Habana no es la típica autobiografía de la vejez en la que el autobiógrafo produce un texto donde a menudo el sujeto cuenta su historia con un propósito didáctico. El propósito de Marta no es de ninguna manera didáctico, sino expositorio. En Las criadas de La Habana el recurso autobiográfico se convierte en el modo más accesible contra el silencio y la distorsión que traspasa el nivel personal y lo dirige hacia lo colectivo. Sin embargo tal colectividad no debe entenderse únicamente al nivel de los obstáculos que confrontan las mujeres negras por su sexo, sino por su raza. Aún más, la condición y situación de la mujer negra dentro de la sociedad tradicionalista pre-revolucionaria y su posición después de la Revolución queda subordinada al tema principal de la novela: la discriminación racial contra el negro, tanto en Cuba como en Estados Unidos, específicamente en Miami. La protagonista-autora de la novela se convierte en el vehículo de exposición de esta inquietud apremiante en la obra del autor como escritor y crítico.

La novela está dividida en dos partes y un intermedio. En la primera parte, cuenta su vida desde aproximadamente finales de la década de los 40 hasta los arbores de la Revolución Cubana. El intermedio es una corta transición que empieza cuatro años después de la Revolución, aludiendo anacrónica y superficialmente a ella. Termina con el incidente de la Embajada de Perú y el consecuente éxodo del Puerto Mariel. La segunda parte, comienza un año después del éxodo de los “marielitos,” extendiéndose hasta 1994.

En la primera parte Pérez Sarduy trata de aplicar algunas de las particularidades de la autobiografía al estilo y técnicas empleadas en la narración para lograr la creación de un personaje-protagonista convincente. Los detalles de la vida familiar de Marta y sus experiencias como criada con diferentes “patrones” en La Habana toman precedente ante sus logros personales, o falta de ellos. Es a través de sus pericias que sale a la superficie el tema principal de la novela, la discriminación racial, el cual conlleva a los problemas de identidad del pueblo cubano, dentro y fuera de la isla. El tema emerge del panorama cultural de la época aludida que Pérez Sarduy se preocupa en presentar minuciosamente, ya que el personaje de Marta nace de un personaje real, la propia madre del autor. La fotografía de la madre, padre y tíos del autor, en la portada de la primera edición de la novela, representan otro texto que forma parte de la discontinuidad narrativa que reafirma el discurso autobiográfico femenino. Marta se convierte en autoridad autorial de la intrahistoria cubana; llena recovecos de la petite histoire: describe la cultura popular, las relaciones raciales y sociales-clasistas de la Cuba pre-revolucionaria.

La discriminación racial es evidente desde un principio con la descripción del “Baile de las Flores.” En ese día de fiesta, los “santa clareños,” informa Marta, se reunían en sus respectivos lugares, de acuerdo a su situación socio-económica: en la “sociedad Bella Unión,” las personas “de color;” “en la Sociedad el Gran Maceo,” “los mulatos y algunos negros con dinero; en el Casino Español,” “los blancos de buena posición; en el Santa Clara Tennis Club y en el Liceo, frente al Parque Vidal, los blancos ricos se reunían a celebrar lo suyo” (13).

En la primera parte, Pérez Sarduy evita concederle a la protagonista una ideología determinada o emitir juicios cargados de una ideología concreta, aunque ofrece una fugaz defensa de la Revolución, en cuanto al deseo anticipado de las criadas de La Habana de compartir una sociedad más equitativa, sobretodo en lo concerniente a la educación. Después de todo, Marta tuvo la oportunidad de terminar cierto grado de educación después de la Revolución, lo que le permitió escribir el texto ficticio que leemos.

Pero en la segunda parte, el autor no puede contener ese imperativo. Aquí el autor introduce nuevos personajes, en su mayoría femeninos, residentes en los Estados Unidos. De estos sobresalen Gracielita y Yamila, que se convierten en no sólo el alter ego de la protagonista, sino también en el de Pérez Sarduy. Gracielita, la hija de una de las amigas de Marta desde los tiempos de criada, simboliza la voz íntima del autor real; mientras que Yamila, la amiga afro-cubana-estadounidense de Gracielita, encarna la voz crítica del autor en cuanto a su visión de los problemas raciales en los Estados Unidos y la falta de una identidad cubana en el exilio.

En la segunda parte sobresale un discurso híbrido, un cruce narrativo entre el epistolar, el novelístico y el autobiográfico; en ocasiones, superponiéndose uno sobre los otros. Marta interacala en la narración las cartas que Gracielita le manda desde los Estados Unidos a su madre. En ellas, Gracielita explica sus experiencias desde que salió de Cuba con su novio blanco durante el éxodo del Mariel hasta su regreso. En Miami, Gracielita hace amistad con Yamila, joven activista, quien la despierta a la cruda realidad de que en los Estados Unidos “lo peor que le puede ocurrir a uno en este país es ser negro. ¡Lo demás se puede arreglar, pero ser negro, no!” (194). Pero lo peor para Gracielita es darse cuenta que para los cubanos blancos exiliados cuando se habla de Cuba los negros no existen, lo cual se evidencia con su ausencia en clubes y organizaciones patrióticas en Miami.

Aunque Marta explica que estas cartas “me sirvieron para entretenerme un rato y planear cómo iba a incorporar todo ese material en lo que ya se estaba perfilando en un libro de memorias y que con voluntad y sin alborotar mucho, Inesita y Julia me estaban ayudando a escribir” (277), su función reside en poner en voz del otro o de otro lo que el autor desea gritarle a su lector. El tono mordaz de éstas critican severamente la discriminación de los exiliados cubanos blancos contra los cubanos negros o mulatos; críticas que se extienden a la discriminación racial en los Estados Unidos, aun entre negros.

Por medio de Gracielita, Pérez Sarduy revela su desencanto frente al fracaso de la Revolución en cuanto a que no pudo erradicar la discriminación racial en Cuba y critica severamente el sustrato cubano exiliado en Miami, que según Yamila, sufre problemas de identidad. Cuando Yamila expresa su frustración ante su inhabilidad de identificarse con los “cubanos-americanos,” el autor real no pierde la ocasión de sentenciar que “lo peor de Cuba se ha concentrado en Miami” (256). Para Yamila sus contemporáneos son “demasiado rosaditos en la mente y en la piel, que mientras pretenden aconsejar cómo debe ser la política interna y externa de Cuba, lo que aspiran es a engrosar las filas de la élite que decidirá el futuro del cubano en este país, al igual que hicieron sus padres cuando salieron huyendo de Cuba” (208-9). Las acusaciones contra los cubanos en Miami continúa hasta el final de la novela. El autor denuncia el oportunismo de los funcionarios políticos en Miami, que según la narración, se aprovechan de cualquier incidente interno en Cuba para hacerlo internacional, pero al mismo tiempo, alude ligeramente a oportunistas cubanos dentro del sistema actual, aunque no hace referencias directas a individuos específicos. Cuando Gracielita dice “Yo me fui de Cuba precisamente por ese tipo de gente oportunista que ha hecho más daño al país que el mismo bloqueo (276),” nos parece estar escuchando la confesión del autor real.

El valor literario de Las criadas de La Habana radica en darle voz y autoridad autorial, aunque ficticia, al discurso de un grupo relegado a la periferia en la historia cubana. La presentación de los problemas expuestos en la novela, revelan la postura ideológica que Pérez Sarduy suele evitar públicamente. Como Gracielita, al final de la novela, Pérez Sarduy no sabe si puede regresar a Cuba definitivamente por la situación racista que aún permea en la sociedad. Personaje y autor real coinciden en que su activismo fuera de la isla contribuirá al encuentro de soluciones para los problemas raciales, mientras que abogan por la política del diálogo de los exiliados cubanos con el gobierno de la isla, un diálogo que tiene como objetivo alcanzar el bienestar social, económico y cultural de todo el pueblo cubano. Las criadas de La Habana es una propuesta de auto-reflexión colectiva para todo el que se considera cubano, que tiene como propósito encontrar una manera de rehabilitar los sistemas de valores sexistas, racistas y clasistas existentes que amenazan y obstaculizan el futuro nacional cubano.

6 - Happy Twenty-something, Martucha
[extract from Las Criadas in English]

Shortly before my birthday, we decided to celebrate the occasion in the big house where Maité worked, taking advantage of the family being away at their holiday chalet at Jaimanitas beach. It was Maité herself who decided to give me a surprise party. All the girls from around Vedado, and others who now worked in Biltmore and Santos Suárez, appeared with some kind of present.

Maité made me an enormous cake, which not even the best bakers at La Gran Vía could have outdone, with three layers of Libby's canned fruits and homemade marmalade. She had decorated it beautifully, and had even put some words on it, somewhat ironically:

Happy twenty-something, Martucha

Mery, the Canary Islander, gave me a bra and knicker set, with pretty pink embroidery. Edelia brought me another set of underwear; Maritza, a flask of Crusella’s Rhum Quinquina cologne – very fashionable in that hot season; and so on. Even Irdoina, who had given up her placement some time before to look after her husband, turned up with a lovely jewellery set of amethyst pendant and a brooch in the shape of a scorpion, which I put on straight away - everyone knew I really liked those creatures. In all I collected some twenty or so presents, including a crate of Coca Cola that Inesita brought from her house.

So as not to make too much noise, and to be out of sight of the neighbours, we agreed to hold the get-together in the dining-room, which was huge. Maité trusted us completely, since almost all of us worked in good houses and she knew we would behave correctly, without dirtying the furniture, leaving a mess, and definitely not breaking anything.

"Girls, behave like white folk," she warned us on our arrival. "Mery, you especially!"

We all laughed loudly, looking at Mery the Canary Islander, who, though she joined in, had gone redder than a ripe tomato. We all knew how to move around those big houses, full of so many glass knick-knacks that you just didn’t know what use they had: big fat ashtrays, candelabras that looked like geese, and loads of silly little things, most of which, according to the shop catalogues, were very expensive. However, the furniture belonging to the family that Maité worked for did not seem to me to be as luxurious as Mr Alberto’s, who had everything specially made in the furniture factory of Orbay & Cerrato.

I prepared the seafood salad, with dried prawns, chicken and diced boiled potatoes, all in a mayonnaise sauce. I also made a sandwich paste from the same ingredients, and, in between the snippets of gossip, I served daiquiris in some cheap glasses that I had brought from my house, since my people were away for the weekend too.

"Girls, did you hear what happened to the famous Romelia?" We all waited in expectantly for Silvia to continue. She always had her nose stuck into everything. Without giving us time to answer, she continued with her story. "Always acting so high and mighty, the little devil, and they catch her red-handed, and in El Encanto of all places!"

"You mean she was stealing?" Mery asked, with her little doll’s voice.

"And why does that woman need to go taking what isn’t hers, with all the money she has?" I let my question slip out, acting annoyed, while preparing another round of daiquiris.

"Oh, none, negra. It’s just that people are saying – listen good, gals, because I don’t want any mix-ups afterwards with you all saying that I said such and such – people say, though I don’t believe it, that she has an illness that gives her the impulse to take things."

"Ah! If she were one of us they’d call her a shoplifter, and they’d send her straight to the lockup. But they get called ’cleopatriacs’, and people say they’re sick. While we just get headaches, they get migraines, and when they have a nervous breakdown, they go to the psychologist while we go straight to a santero. That’s how life is, my dear!"

Caridad started laughing at her own words, and we all followed suit. It was so contagious that Maité had to raise her voice to tell us to keep quiet, though she too was happily laughing with the rest of us.

"Damn it, girls, don’t make so much noise! And you, see if you can’t learn how to talk properly – after all, that’s what they pay you for."

To be told off by the eldest among us was something we always took note of. Maité was famed for taking on the role of stepmother for all of us. The only thing that distinguished her from Mamá Dolores in the soap opera El Derecho de Nacer was that she wasn’t fat and knew how to talk properly. If Maité said something to someone, then that person had to take note, because her influence wasn’t to be taken lightly: and Caridad – who was very black, and worked for a radio scriptwriter who lived in the Retiro Radial building, on Línea Avenue – felt very embarrassed. But I managed to animate things again.

"Silvana, why don’t you tell us what happened?" I said, and she flamboyantly got up from the arm of one of the four armchairs covered in black imitation leather that were in the corners of the spacious dining-room. We all liked Silvia to tell her stories standing, and she enjoyed telling them. She was more of an actress than even Raquel Revuelta.

"What happened? Well, my dear, you know how things are.... I found out because her aunt came from Sancti Spiritus just to put out the fire that was threatening to get out of control, because as you know she was giving herself airs of nobility long before she inherited her father’s tobacco farms over in Caibarién."

Romelia Heredia was really quite a pretty bottle blonde, with a great body, who had been the Palmolive Beauty Queen some two or three years previously. She had so many men after her, she was able to choose whoever she liked, and married José Lorenzo Urquiala – a famous baseball player with the Almendares team, who earned loads of money playing seasons in the United States. Urquiala was the godson of Don Emiliano, one of the brothers of the countess who Silvia worked for: a really easygoing guy, and a notorious womanizer, who had a share in the Tropical beer factory, which, although not Cuban, was the most popular beer in Cuba. From the start Don Emiliano, who was born in Florida, but whose parents were Spanish, had advised Urquiala not to marry Romelia, because, as he openly said: "Look, son, you might think that she makes you rich now, but she’ll end up by leaving you in the gutter." But Urquiala, who was also famous for his womanizing, answered right back, "With a body like that, I’ll happily let her ruin me," and was determined to marry the girl who was one of the most sought after white girls in Havana.

Silvia worked as housekeeper in the residence of the Countess of Sabadel – a mysterious woman who gave a lot of money to cancer research, and to help the blind, because she was stinking rich. She kept us up to date with all the scandals you would never find published in Carteles, Vanidades or even in the Dentro del Suceso section of Bohemia, let alone in the society pages of the Diario de la Marina or El Crisol, two of the newspapers read by people with money. Romelia’s latest adventure wasn’t her worst. The big scandal came one year after their wedding, when Urquiala returned from another season in the States and the rumour was circulating that his beautiful wife had been cheating on him with Eulalio Santacruz, of all people, who, it has to be said, was one of the few and best coloured baseball players, who played for Marianao. Everyone knew that Eulalio thought himself to be really good-looking, and he had every right to do so, since with his long eyelashes and thick black eyebrows, and his famous smile showing off his even, white teeth, he looked like a coloured Liberace. He wasn’t really black, or at least of my colour, but considerably lighter. The scandal was terrible, though then again it didn’t come out in the newspapers, maybe for fear that what was just gossip would become true, or vice versa. On the other hand, it would give the baseball player a bad name, and he had good and influential friends among the journalists. In that tragedy, the blood never reached the river, probably because of the strength that Eulalio had in his arm, which had led his fans to give him the nickname Sledgehammer. He was the best pitcher of all the baseball teams, and as strong as a bull. I think that Urquiala thought better of it all. You could hear about these things on Radio Bemba*, through all the gossip on the street, which spread news like wildfire all over Havana, with all the lurid details, including the black eye that Romelia got from the slap that bully Urquiala gave her. Because in the end that’s all he was: a terrible bully.

"Well, girls, who believes that theft gets discovered by accident," Silvia went on, "because if the shop attendant… Anyway, it seems that Romelia put on a little perfume in the cosmetics department, tried the lipsticks and all that, but next door was the jewellery department, and everyone always pays her close attention wherever she goes, since everyone knows who Romelia is. You know what men are like, always wanting to ingratiate themselves with women, and one of the male attendants was all over her, because it seems that Romelia always buys something. But, when the woman turned towards one of the mirrors, the attendant became distracted by another customer who had come in person to collect a Champion Swiss quartz watch as a present for her future daughter-in-law, and so he called over to a girl who had just begun working there to come to take care of Romelia, and purely by accident she saw the Palmolive star drop down her cleavage a pearl solitaire, which had been in a special display cabinet, on top of the counter, along with other jewels. Romelia took advantage of the distraction, and quickly said goodbye to the attendant, at the same moment as he was giving the other lady customer a gallant kiss on the hand."

Silvia paused to light a cigarette. She didn’t chain smoke like many of us, but after a couple of drinks she couldn’t stop talking, and every now and then would take a cigarette from one of us. This time she took a Chesterfield that Maité, who was next to her, was offering, and she lit it with a lighter embedded in a glass case, that looked like an Aladdin’s lamp, which was placed as an ornament on top of a small table along with a number of glasses, empty or almost empty, in which I had served the cocktail I had prepared.

"It seems that the new shop assistant tried in every way she could to let the other attendant, who was flirting with his customer, know of the crime she had witnessed," Silvia continued her story. "Meanwhile, Romelia took the escalator down to the street. Finally, the poor serving-girl called the floor supervisor, but Romelia was by now almost leaving the shop through the door that leads on to Galiano, on her way to the nearby car park where they were looking after her red and white Chevrolet convertible, one of the prizes she had received as beauty queen. Suddenly a security guard from the top floor of the shop shouted to the guard at the door, ‘Stop her! Stop that woman in the navy blue dress!’"

Here Silvia fell silent, and cast her eyes on each of us so that we would know that she was about to come to the punch line of the story. After a few seconds that seemed like minutes, and protests from several of us, Silvia gave us one of her cheeky, girlish smiles, while blowing out the last mouthful of smoke from the cigarette, which she put out in one of the cut glass ashtrays. Having finished this little performance, she said to us, as if we were a group of kids, "That’s enough for now, girls. The rest you can imagine."

"Shiiittt!!" exclaimed Inesita, who had avidly followed all the artistry and details of Silvia’s story, as though it were La Guantanamera, that radio show with Joseíto Fernández that told all the stories of passion from the newspapers, and crime from police files. The story of the theft wasn't especially important for the value of the ring she had taken, since, it has to be said, we never knew for certain exactly what it was -whether it had been that solitaire that everyone was talking about, or even whether it was just a fantasy. Although Silvia swore "by the remains of my great grandmother" that it was a very expensive ring, to tell the truth we never found out what really happened, and Silvia was renowned for exaggerating. As I said, the point wasn’t what was stolen, but rather how the affair was hushed up. Romelia’s aunt sorted things out so that her niece could hide away in the country, and that was it. The whole affair was never spoken of again among us maids.

7 - Alicia in Siguaraya Land

Alicia, Mr Alberto’s daughter from his first marriage, had a boyfriend called Tony. He was barely twenty, though he seemed older, since he was very well built, and played for the American football team of the Vedado Tennis Club. In terms of looks, it was as if all possible ugliness had been concentrated in him; but the family had money.

Ali – as everyone knew her – was very good, naïve and studious. She had come to appreciate me greatly, as I did her. Her father loved her to distraction, and so did Miss Ofelia. She spent almost every weekend in her father’s house, and her boyfriend would come to see her there.

One night, on returning from visiting one of my sisters, I surprised Ali fighting off his advances in the almost totally dark stairway. She jumped with fright when she saw me.

"Oh, Tata, where are you coming from at such an hour – so late?" was all she could think of saying.

"Out and about," I responded dryly, and stopped so that the boy would let me pass. "And you, what are you doing in the stairway at such a late hour with your boyfriend?"

Ali wanted to express her authority, as the miss of the house, although the role never suited her well. Then again, she was with her boyfriend. Miss Ofelia was insistent that Tony, whose father was a cattle rancher, should marry Alicia one day, and I’m sure the girl had come down to say goodbye to him with her consent.

The following day, Sunday, Alicia told me that her boyfriend had said that I was very impertinent, to which she had answered that if anyone had been impertinent then it had been she, because she had no business asking me where I had been at that hour.

"Then, Tata, he told me that he couldn’t stand you, and that if you went as maid to his house, he would throw you out himself."

"Well, don’t you worry about that. Don’t waste time thinking about it. I wouldn’t go to his house even to visit, because he is very rude, and parents who allow their children to behave in such a way are equal to or worse than their children."

He was so rude and vulgar that even in his girlfriend’s house he would take off his cowboy boots and shirt, saying that he was very hot. He was always throwing it in the poor girl’s face that he went to Miami twice or three times a month to visit relatives who lived in a neighbourhood with a name like a Hollywood actor – I can’t remember which one now. But anyway, Ali couldn’t afford such a luxury, although her parents were planning on giving her a surprise.

On one occasion Mr Alberto told Alicia that if she continued to follow the example of her stepmother he didn’t know what would become of her, and that her boyfriend, Tony, couldn’t continue coming to the house, and he didn’t care a fig how many cows his father had, "Because we aren’t rich, though Ofelia believes otherwise. She goes around saying that your boyfriend is the son of the landowner Señor So-and-so, and puts up with whatever that spoilt oaf does."

That was the signal for things to get worse, and after a week Alicia and Tony had a fight that left her crying uncontrollably.

For her part, Miss Ofelia didn’t give all up for lost, and consoled the girl with promises of a reconciliation, for which she did the unheard of, and arranged to meet Tony herself – though she never revealed anything about what they spoke of.

A fortnight hadn’t gone by before Alicia met Tony in a club in Biltmore, where she suffered a further deception.

"Just imagine," she later told me. "There he was with another girl, and he told all the other girls that he couldn’t mix with me because I was very poor."

The next week the family went to the Country Club, to a fifteenth birthday party, and there was Tony again. He came over to Ali, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her roughly towards him, saying, "Make sure I don’t see you dancing with any of those guys, you hear?"

Ali was very pretty. She was probably one of the prettiest white girls in Havana. She had a doll-like body, but in comparison with her friends, or rather those friends that Miss Ofelia tried to force on her, she was poor. Ali’s mother had a good job as supervisor of long-distance operators with the Cuban Telephone Company. Her parents had divorced when Ali was barely three. Mr Alberto never mentioned his ex-wife by name, always saying, "Ali’s mother". She was beautiful woman too, fairly young and smart, so far as I could tell from the photograph that Ali took out only when she was in the house, and which she put on the dressing-table in her room. But anyway, returning to the girl: Ali was very charming, and provoked a lot of envy. They even said of her, "What a shame. So pretty, and yet so poor." Others would throw it in her face, "Yes, you may be very pretty, but you can’t show off a new dress every week like I can!" Ali cried a lot because of all this.

"Don’t be silly, girl!" I would comfort her. "Calm down! How can you spill precious tears just because you can’t wear a new dress every week? Look, they may have a new dress every day, but they don’t have your natural good manners, and they don’t have your education and you morals."

"Tata, I’d like to know why you always say that they’re immoral."

"Look, my girl, I really couldn’t care less about him, but if you had done what Tony had wanted of you, he wouldn’t have left you like he did. But because you took care of yourself – and I know full well what he wanted from you – so he slapped you. You can’t tell me differently, because I know that that’s what happened. You don’t realize it because you are still very young, even if you're almost fifteen. But I’m older than you, and as the saying goes, ‘the Devil knows more from being old than from being the Devil.’ "

Alicia didn’t know how beautiful she was; at least she wasn’t vain like her little friends.

When she at last celebrated her fifteenth birthday, it was really something to remember. For the first time, Mr Alberto made an effort to give his daughter an amazing party – so much so, that the Diario de la Marina even commented on it. The orchestra alone, which played the waltz and four or five other pieces, cost him two hundred and fifty pesos. Afterwards, the Riverside Orchestra, with Tito Gómez, came on stage for an hour, and finally a group began to play rock and roll until the party ended.

The boys were all dressed in dinner jackets, and the fifteen girls of the entourage were in long party gowns, decorated with orchids from Jardín Goyanes – so expensive! Even we servants, who were helping with the service, all had new uniforms, which Miss Ofelia had ordered to be made expressly for the occasion. There were thirty-five of us, almost all of us servants with families known to the Menendezes, who had offered their services as a kind of present for the birthday girl – for which Miss Ofelia was very pleased.

When Alicia appeared at the top of the main staircase in the Miramar Yacht Club, and came down to the rhythm of "Happy Birthday" and the fanfare of the orchestra, the many exclamations were such that they are still engraved in my brain. "What a doll!" said the most sincere. "Just think who they must have borrowed it all from!" said others, those who were always intriguing and who claimed to be friends of Miss Ofelia.

The party was marvellous, and I was at the head of the servants, co-ordinating the champagne, the beer, the liquor, the cocktails for the special guests. Even the owner of the French pastry shop Sylvain himself made a four-tier cake, and all the sweets and pastries you could think of. Three pink Cadillacs were hired that afternoon to transport the girls for the waltz! Cars came and cars went! They paid for it all on credit, and what for? I ask myself as well. To mix with those people of the Country Club, Vedado Tennis Club, the Yacht Club, the Casino Español, the Centro Gallego, and so on. All those whites who after all had far more than they did.

But what Miss Ofelia had wanted occurred. Ali’s fifteenth birthday party was being spoken about for a lifetime afterwards; when I left that house and several years had gone by, often my best reference when I went looking for a new placement was that I had been the head of service of the fifteenth birthday party of the Menendez girl. And the comments of the people, when they wanted to make some kind of comparison, were, "Ah, yes, it was good, but not like the fifteenth of the Menendez girl!" That is to say, that everything was dated either before or after Ali’s fifteenth birthday. In this Miss Ofelia did succeed in winning the forgiveness of Mr Alberto for all her wrongdoings up till that moment.

Around that time, Miss Ofelia became the lover of the children’s godfather. He was one of the owners of the car agency Los Amigos, with a salesroom near Infanta and 23rd. She was one of those ladies – and there were many of them – who pretended to be very respectable, but who were actually more unfaithful than a bitch on heat. They acted as though they had a morality that most of them didn’t have at all.

Miss Ofelia and this man spoke by telephone in English. She would distance me from the phone, thinking that I was stupid, saying, "Martucha, whoever phones, don’t answer it. I will. Do you understand?"

Of course I understood! So, if I was near the phone cleaning and it rang, she would hurry out saying to me, "No, no, no! Don’t answer it, Martucha. I’ll get it!" It was totally out of character, since she was usually so lazy that even if she wanted to drink water she would get me to fetch it. And now that the phone was ringing, she wouldn’t let me answer, which she had instructed me from the start was one of my duties in the house. When she had finished talking, and the phone later rang again, then, of course, I did have to answer it.

"Oh, Martucha, answer the phone, will you, please!"

One day I made a comment and she realized that I suspected something. Acting as if I knew nothing, I said to her, smiling, "You know, ma’am, you seem to have some kind of problem, because until you’ve spoken in English on the phone you won’t let me answer it."

She limited herself to looking at me seriously, and leaving the room. Some months later 14th February, Saint Valentine’s Day, came. "Let’s clean the house really well," she suggested to me.

I looked at her and began laugh, "Ay, ma’am, you are cheeky! What you really want to say is that I should fix the house. Isn’t that it?"

"That’s right. I want you to fix the house so that it’s really nice, as though you were waiting to receive your boyfriend."

"But I don’t have a boyfriend, ma’am."

"Maybe not. It’s just a manner of speaking, so that you make an effort and leave it really nice for me."

Miss Ofelia and Mr Alberto’s two children, Tico and Cuqui, often went out with their godfather, who in truth looked more like their great-grandfather, though from a distance he seemed to have kept himself looking good. I would get them ready and he would come in his big car and take them around Havana, going to the shops and coming back loaded with presents. Miss Ofelia referred to him as "the children’s godfather" only once – but that was only the first time, because from then on, not even that.

That day she called me: "Martucha, when you’ve finished in the kitchen, close the door."

I already knew that he was coming that day, even if for just an hour. I had no reason to concern myself about it. Mr Alberto was in his shop, the children were at school, and when I finished my work at around two in the afternoon I shut the kitchen door and went to rest in my room without worrying about what was happening on the other side.

Quite a bit later – it must have been about two hours, since I slept right through my siesta – Miss Ofelia and I met in the corridor outside my room, and I saw that she seemed to be in a bad mood. She looked really out of sorts. I later learned that, although it was Saint Valentine’s Day, they had a fight. She realized I had guessed something. Woman's intuition told me the relationship had fallen apart, whether for good or for bad – although as far as I was concerned, I couldn’t care less. After all, that was white folks’ business.

Sure enough, what had to happen, happened. Towards the end of that February, she called me to tell me that I couldn’t continue working for her, because the situation was getting very bad. The thing is, Mr Alberto had discovered everything – after all, the whole neighbourhood knew all about it, and everyone was gossiping. But also, he was almost bankrupt, and they were going to separate. But she said nothing of all this to me.

"It’s just that I can’t continue paying you forty pesos a month, Martucha. As you know, last year we sacked Ela, and now I can’t afford to pay more than twenty-five pesos."

She was putting me in a terrible position. She knew very well that my work was worth much more than that, and also that I couldn’t afford to earn so little.

Without any more ado, I collected my things and went to my sister Mercedes' house, which is where I always went for refuge, whether or not I had work. But not too many days went by before I had found another placement, this time without the help of the employment agency, but through the recommendation of a friend who was also in the same line of work.

Las Criadas de La Habana
The Maids of Havana
Les bonnes de La Havane
by Pedro Perez Sarduy

Publisher Contact

Nancy Morejón sobre Las Criadas

Commentary

La Visión Imponderable de Marta, la Doméstica por Tomás González Pérez, 7/27/05

Reviewed by Dina De Luca
Neumann College, 3/06

6 - Happy Twenty-something, Martucha
[extract from Las Criadas in English]

French Edition, 2007

Contacting AfroCubaWeb

Copyright © 1997 AfroCubaWeb, S.A.

Las Criadas de La Habana The Maids of Havana Les bonnes de La Havane by Pedro Perez Sarduy

Publisher Contact

Nancy Morejón sobre Las Criadas

Commentary

La Visión Imponderable de Marta, la Doméstica por Tomás González Pérez, 7/27/05

Reviewed by Dina De Luca Neumann College, 3/06

6 - Happy Twenty-something, Martucha [extract from Las Criadas in English]

French Edition, 2007

Contacting AfroCubaWeb

Copyright © 1997 AfroCubaWeb, S.A.

Las Criadas de La Habana
The Maids of Havana
Les bonnes de La Havane
by Pedro Perez Sarduy

Reviewed by Dina De Luca
Neumann College, 3/06

6 - Happy Twenty-something, Martucha
[extract from Las Criadas in English]