Page 51 of Perfume Girl

THE NIGHT BROUGHT COOLER AIR, making it easier to walk Havana’s streets without the oppressive humidity bearing down on me.

I adored this city…even though it tried to destroy me as a child and very nearly did. The painful memories felt like a knife in my heart as my gaze swept over the familiar colonial architecture with its Moorish influence. The breeze carried all the rich, flavorful scents of Cuban cuisine.

This city still owned a part of me. Time after time I’d been seduced into coming back for the art and music of the island.

The eclectic culture made me feel at home and took me back to a simpler time.

A crueler time.

With an easy stride, I made my way back to where it all happened, all the way down to Plaza de San Francisco to the abandoned basilica and the monastery of San Francisco. Peering up at the one hundred thirty foot tall bell tower, I easily recalled how it had wakened us every morning…the orphans, the reprobates, and all the other boys of ill-repute who had been sent here as a last resort.

I had been the only American. Sent here alone at thirteen, and then forgotten.

My fingers wrapped around the windows and I rose on my toes to do what I always did when I visited Havana, peer into that deserted classroom and let the memories envelope me. The only way to hold onto my power was to remember what I had survived and how far I had come.

There, through the barred window I saw an upturned school desk…

Cuban summers brought stifling temperatures. My fellow students had grown used to the heat and rarely complained. As instructed, we remained quiet as we sat through our science exam, which I flew through with ease. My education back in America had been top-notch, and thanks to my nanny back in the States, I was fluent in Spanish. Looking around at my classmates, I saw that I was the first one to finish the test paper.

My motivation for speeding through the questions was Sister Mary’s promise that she would get a letter to my mother, so I stole a few precious minutes to write, tearing off paper from my notebook and beginning:

“Dearest Mommy,

Father Patrick says that you have decided not to visit.”

I had started it wrong.

I balled up the paper, lifted the lid of my desk and hid the evidence. Then I began again.

“Dearest Mommy,

I am being good and studying and Father Renaldo has given me a book of poetry that he thinks I’ll enjoy. I like the way the words sound. We play sports most afternoons though the other boys are rough. They like to win. My favorite class is chemistry. Father Renaldo says I will make a good scientist one day if I keep my studies up.

I miss you. Do you think it might be time to tell them what happened? I believe this would help. I want to come home.”

Raising my gaze, I saw Father Emesto stomping toward my desk. The short, fat monk, whose eyebrows met in the middle, didn’t seem to like teaching—or us, for that matter.

“What is that?” he demanded, looming over me.

The once quiet room was now swirling with the whispers of the other students.

“Silence!” Emesto ordered.

Staring up at him, I tried to gauge his anger. “I finished my exam, sir.”

He frowned. “Already?” He spotted my letter and lifted it off the desk to read it.

“It’s for my mom. I had some time left.”

He scanned the letter, scrunched it up and stepped back. “Pick up your test paper and come with me.”

Panic rushed through my soul. “Have I done something wrong, sir?”

Emesto reached for the scruff of my collar, dragging me out of my chair and down between the rows of students who were pretending to ignore us.

“Report to the Dean’s office,” snapped Emesto, as he pushed into the hall. “Tell him you were caught cheating.” He slammed the classroom door in my face.

With my paper in hand, I headed off to see the Dean, who I knew would be reasonable. He would see that my answers were honest.