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1 • cuba 1996 Fours years had passed since my last trip to Cuba, and I thought this one would be my last. This trip was supposed to give me the opportunity to say good-bye, to see my brothers, sister, and old friends one last time. I wanted to see Cuba once more. I wanted to see again the place where I had lived the best years of my life. Even in exile, I always considered Cuba my home. In the years since I was last there, life had fundamentally changed. I lost a son. I became a changed man, hollow, empty. The pain of losing Rodolfo a couple of months after his thirty-sixth birthday was too much to endure. Even though I had a wonderful wife, four loving children, and eight beautiful grandchildren, I could hardly stand the pain. I had lost my desire to live. I would have offered my life a thousand times for his, but life betrayed me. A lifetime ago Fanny, my dear wife, and I had to endure the loss of another child, a son who died just days after he was born. It was very painful then, but we were young and full of life. Five more children were born afterward to help us with our loss. But we lost Rodolfo after seeing him become a man. Fanny found comfort in the constant love and attention from the kids and grandchildren, but I still saw the hurt in her eyes. I found no comfort, not in anything. I love all my children dearly, but Rodolfo had a special place in my heart. He reminded me of my oldest brother, Heliodoro. Rodolfo was charismatic, full of life, adventurous, and he had a mischievious streak that captured my heart. I was blessed with a beautiful family. René Jr. turned out to be the responsible, serious, “father” type, often looking after his younger 2 rené villarreal and raúl villarreal siblings. Fanny, the oldest of the girls, named after her mother, is quiet, sweet, and very protective. Martha, the youngest, is the independent career woman who solves the family’s problems. Raúl, the youngest of the boys, is the artist. My family always makes me proud. Fanny and I raised them well. We tried to teach them right from wrong, to teach them all we could, to raise them the same way our parents raised us. I realized how fortunate my life had been. I had a wonderful family, a good decent life, and the privilege of knowing one of the great American writers of the twentieth century. I had been Ernest Hemingway’s friend—su hombre de confianza, his right-hand man, su hijo cubano. The children urged us to make the trip to Cuba, hoping it would help after Rodolfo’s death. Raúl said he would accompany us. He didn’t want us to travel alone. His brother and sisters made him promise he would take good care of us. I invited Rosa Santurces to join us on the trip. Though a distant relative by marriage, most of my family referred to her as Aunt Rosa. She had left Cuba in 1968. She was now eighty-four years old, twice widowed, and very independent. She had refused to move to Miami, Florida, with her blood relatives and lived alone in a small apartment in New York City. At her age, she was happy to be going home once more. We left from Kennedy Airport early on the morning of Friday, May 10, 1996, landing in Nassau close to noon. As the passengers destined for Cuba entered the terminal, the band that had been playing island music started to play La Guantanamera. I felt a rush of emotion and understood why I was making this trip. Most of the passengers were like me—Cubans returning home—and we all sat together in the hot, humid airport terminal waiting for the connecting flight to Havana. I studied the faces of my fellow passengers, looking to distingish between the non-Cubans traveling for pleasure and Cubans traveling to visit family. Those of us visiting family all had the same look of worry, anticipation, uncertainty. We had worked hard all year to save money for this trip, to buy clothes, shoes, eyeglasses, toys—anything a family member had asked for in a letter or over the phone. But we now wondered what to expect when the bags are weighed, how much money it would take...

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