Waiting for the Guagua
For the third time, Maritza pulled her watch out of her bag. It wasn’t just her imagination; she’d been in the bus line for more than forty-five minutes. She regretted not using the bathroom in Cine Yara, but the ones without water were revolting and she’d calculated that she could wait until she got home. She put the watch away.
Her neighbor had offered to fix the strap without charging but she was used to keeping it in her bag. Sometimes it was better not to see how the minutes, hours, years marched on. The watch still told the time, she just couldn’t wear it on her wrist. For a moment she thought about going to Hotel Habana Libre to use the bathroom there. If her friend was working now, he’d give her the key, but she was afraid the guagua would come while she was in the hotel.
To make things worse, she was hungry. Not hungry like during the Special Period, but she was uncomfortable. She thought of the beans and rice at home. There was still half an onion and a tomato — that is, if her husband hadn’t eaten them. No matter, at least there’d be rice and beans. And water, but she shouldn’t drink more liquid, or even think of it. How was it possible to need to pee and be thirsty at the same time? There were now more than fifty people behind her and not a sign of the guagua. Maritza didn’t think they’d all fit in the bus when it arrived, but she was second in line. She’d be able to enter.
A young foreigner, American or Canadian, approached a woman dressed all in white, la última in line for Coppelia, the famous ice cream emporium, who then silently pointed to the tourist entrance. The young woman shook her head, and the woman in white indicated a skinny smoker leaning against the fence. The foreigner approached the guy and said something to him, and when he nodded his head she looked discouraged. She’d probably thought that the much shorter line for Coppelia was for the guagua and was disappointed to learn how many people were ahead of her.
So as not to dwell on her physical discomfort, Maritza focused on remembering the seventies when she was a student and went often to Coppelia with her group of friends and there weren’t two lines to enter — nor were there two types of money. They sacrificed a lot, yes, but they had so much pride and hope. She even went to Russia to study. How cold it was! But she left the island, saw something of the world. Her best friend Luisa, now dead of cancer, went to Germany. Although her mother was illiterate, Maritza had two doctorates. That wouldn’t have been possible without Fidel.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a young man approaching the foreigner. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it was obvious from his new sneakers and his cell phone that he was a jinetero, a street hustler. The young woman dug in her huge backpack and gave him a cigarette. The young man tried to flirt with her, but she gave him a polite smile and turned her back. That surprised Maritza; apparently, she wasn’t a credulous tourist. The majority of foreigners fell for the romance that the cocodrilos sold, but it appeared that this one was more astute. She wasn’t sure why — perhaps for her open way of dealing with people — but the young woman reminded Maritza of her own daughter, who now lived in Denmark. She understood why Mayté had left, but she missed her a great deal. Minutes later, as if she’d heard her thoughts, the foreigner came toward Maritza, probably to ask for a place farther up in line. Although she liked the young woman who reminded her of Mayté, there are things that are sacred, and the bus line is one of them. She would not give her a place.
“Excuse me, compañera, how long have you been in the line?” she asked without realizing that nowadays hardly anyone said compañera. Definitely American.
Smiling, Maritza grabbed her watch again, “An hour.”
“The guagua should come any minute,” the young woman said.
“Just like the cooking oil, chicken, and toilet paper,” commented the man who was first in line, a seventy-something gentleman wearing a well-ironed guayabera.
Suddenly a vendor interrupted them, “Maní, maní, un peso.”
Now her hunger came close to reminding her of the Special Period. Maritza dug for her change, although she knew she had only fifty centavos, forty for the guagua, and ten more.
“Maní, maní, tres por dos pesos.”
The American bought three cones of the peanuts and offered one to Maritza, who tried to say no. Finally, the young woman accepted ten centavos for the maní, and Maritza ate with relish. The American offered the third cone to the older gentleman, who accepted it with a smile. It didn’t surprise either the first or second in line that the jinetero once again zeroed in on the foreigner.
“Señorita, if you are hungry, let me take you to my friend’s restaurant. Very good. And you’ll have a real Cuban experience. Also, my mother sells cigars.”
“Comemierda! Get out of here! Stop bothering her!” said the old man.
The young woman ignored the guy and looked at her phone. She appeared anxious.
“I have to be at school within an hour. Do you know how long the bus takes to get there?”
“Which school?”
“Latin American School of Medicine.”
“That’s far!” Maritza shook her head and sighed, “It takes me half an hour to get to Miramar, and the school is much farther than that. I don’t know, I doubt that you can—”
The old man interjected, “I live in Jaimanitas. That’s a trip of about forty minutes. You have to go just a little farther. If the guagua comes soon...”
The young woman became even more anxious, “I have to find a maquina!” And she stepped off the curb in search of one.
Maritza turned to the old man, “I doubt she’ll find one. I haven’t seen any for a while.”
The older gentleman nodded, “Because there’s no gas. It’s the same with the guagua. The blockade is killing us.”
“You’re right. It seems crazy to me that those old cars they hold together with tape and paper clips are worth so much over there. I’m the same age as the cars and I’m not worth nearly that much,” Maritza joked.
The American appeared about to cry when she returned to them. “There aren’t any and I don’t see the guagua. Nothing. If I don’t get to school on time I could lose my scholarship. I have an exam. I knew I shouldn’t have spent the night here. I don’t know what to do.”
The jinetero offered, “I’ll help you. My cousin has—”
“Enough, coño,” the old man yelled.
The American was trembling. Maritza wanted to hug her and tell her that everything would be all right, but that would be a lie.
The young woman looked at her phone again. “There’s no other choice, I’ll have to get a cab.”
“That costs a fortune! In CUCs!”1 Maritza exclaimed, but the American had already run to the street for a taxi.
There were always cabs for tourists — who knew where they found the gas. She didn’t want to complain because they suffered many fewer shortages after Fidel permitted tourism. But before that, all of them were poor and hungry. Equal. Sometimes it bothered her to see how easy it was for tourists to go around in taxis. Maritza heard that the trip cost fifteen CUCs. Too much. Even with the money Mayté sent her, she couldn’t dream of spending so much for transportation. It was crazy! Surprisingly, the young woman, instead of leaving immediately, returned to Maritza and invited her and the older gentleman to ride with her. “It’s on the way and he won’t charge me more.”
“No, gracias,” Maritza said, although she really needed to pee, she was very hungry, and her feet hurt her from standing for so long.
The driver honked.
“I’m in a hurry. Are you sure you don’t want to go with me?”
“I’m sure, but thank you.”
“Please, it won’t cost me any more.”
“You’re very kind. It’s that I’ve already waited an hour. If I go with you and the guagua comes, I’ll have lost all that time for nothing.”
The older gentleman said that yes, thank you, he’d like to join her. Poor man, standing in the sun for more than an hour. Maritza thought it was a good thing that he went with her. But as for her, in spite of her discomfort, she was determined to wait however long it took for the guagua. As he was walking to the street, the old man turned to Maritza, “You’re worth more than any car, believe me.”
She smiled.
The jinetero followed the American, brushed past the old man and attempted to open the taxi door.
The American looked at him coldly, “No, thank you. I already have a gentleman with me.”
The two got into the cab and left the cocodrilo standing in the street. Maritza imagined that the American would be a good doctor. In spite of everything, at least she’d met two decent people in the bus line.
She approached the street to see if the guagua was coming. Not a sign. She was even thirstier now after eating the salted peanuts. There were at least thirty people in line for Coppelia already, even though it wouldn’t open for an hour. Two foreign women arrived, and as was expected, the jinetero approached them. Maritza considered warning the women but decided not to. Every Cuban has to do something to survive, and although in her opinion everyone should study, the truth was that at the end of the day her two doctorates didn’t bring her much money.
For the fifth time Maritza grabbed her watch from her bag: an hour and ten minutes. The skinny guy, still leaning against the fence, coughed and lit another cigarette. Maritza, now the first in line, missed the old man. Although they didn’t talk much, she’d liked being alongside another person with a memory of the good and the bad, someone to whom it wasn’t necessary to explain anything. Nor even to speak. Already there were a hundred people waiting for the guagua, and the line for Coppelia was so long it reached to the corner of L and 23rd and snaked up L toward 21st Street. Many would not fit in the bus, and as for those waiting for Coppelia, very few would be lucky enough to get chocolate, Fidel’s favorite. Every day you wait, and nothing really happens, but you never know.
PENNELL SOMSEN is an author who has published translations in Rio Grande Review, Latin American Literature Today, Delos Journal, InTranslation, Epiphany, and others.