In Tomorrow They Will Kiss, Eduardo Santiago explores the inter-woven lives of six Cuban-American women by examining their relationships and their past in Cuba. Told from the perspectives of three of the six women, the narrative goes back and forth between different characters, blending the events of the past into present-day drama.
Caridad, Imperio, and Graciela all grew up together in a small Cuban town. Cardidad, who is proper and proud and always dresses impeccably, seems determined to present an impermeable outward appearance; yet the expensive face powder on her face masks a deep sense of loss. Her best friend, Imperio, is short and skinny with a sharp tongue that she uses to tell it like it is. Attractive, adventurous, and dreamy, Graciela is an acquaintance who went to school with both women. Although Imperio and Caridad consider Graciela one of them, they can’t get past Graciela’s scandalous past in Cuba and are quick to scrutinize her every move.
Every day, the six Cuban women pile into the van, carpooling together to work at a toy factory. Newly emigrated from Cuba, these women find life in 1960s New Jersey to be a far cry from the better life they envisioned in America. Poor, unable to speak English, and struggling to support themselves and their families, these women try to re-create the lives they left behind in the aftermath of the Cuban Revolution. All of the women struggle with the paradox of having had plenty of money in Cuba, but nothing to buy because of years of embargoes. Now in the U.S., goods are abundant, but the women lack the financial means to acquire them.
The women viciously gossip about one another and do not get along particularly well. Yet bonds of their common ancestry keep them together. As Imperio, puts it, “We stood up for our own no matter how misguided their decisions.” In the face of animosities and personal frustrations, what unites these women are the Spanish language telenovelas:
Many things divided the passengers of that van. Bickering was almost constant. It was the telenovas that united us. No matter how annoying we found each other, when the topic turned to the current telenovela, we all cheered up.
The telenovelas’ predictable narrative and reassuring regularity provide respite and entertainment for these women; they’re an escape to a dramatic other world away from the struggles of daily life. Unlike in the Cuban women’s own lives, in the telenovelas there is never the question of whether the dramatic conclusion will happen; it is only a matter of when: “There was only one thing none of us in the van could ever be sure of, and that was when the first kiss between our favorite new couple would take place.”
For Graciela, life in the U.S. is a chance to build start over and dream of new possibilities. Graciela believes that, like the plot of a telenovela, things will work out eventually; it is just a matter of waiting for that episode to come. She aspires to make something more for herself as she starts to study English and fashion design and begins a relationship with the factory foreman.
Caridad and Imperio tell quite different stories. They are continually shocked and outraged by Graciela’s indiscretions and reminded of her past infidelities. For Caridad and Imperio, Graciela is like a wild telenovela character. But although both women disagree with Graciela’s actions, they are continually tuning into the next episode, intrigued by what she might do next. Like the escape of a telenovela, Graciela gives the other women a distraction from their own longings for the Cuba of the past and the hardships they face at present.
Through the narrative frame of the telenovela, Santiago masterfully illustrates the complexities of experience for Cuban exiles in the U.S. The multiple points of view of the different characters tell stories of loss, disappointments, but also of dreams and hopes, “burning with expectation of tomorrow and that kiss.”
The latest posts at the blog of The Quarterly Conversation
I’ve been thinking a lot about heat waves. The thick summer weather has felt like a wall of fire that must be bravely pushed through to order to exit from an air conditioned office building and make my way to the corner to board a bus crowded with sweaty citizens. So perhaps it’s no surprise that [...]
"What’s not so up for dispute is that Markson accomplished what, by all rights, should be a literary impossibility." (Colin Marshall for The Millions)
"Ich liebe dich. No sentence pronounced by a judge could be more threatening. It means that you are about to receive a gift you may not want." Via Dylan Suher, Greg Gerke's sort-of review of William H. Gass's Reading Rilke in BIG OTHER.
A fan of Herman Melville must have patience. He must appreciate digression and the dissolution of pattern or plan. He must enjoy the sheer rush of words, a proper Biblical torrent of them. And he must be able to find pleasure in philosophical dialogue as much as in wild anecdote. But must he read Clarel? Can [...]
This is just one small example.
Thomas Bernhard is certainly one of the major, titanic writers of any era, any country. Enormously influential, unremittingly bleak and pessimistic but never without a sense of humor, his style evolved into single-paragraphed philosophical rants extending hundreds of pages, the best of which are Woodcutters, ‘Walking’ (from Three Novellas), and Gathering Evidence. I have finally [...]
Ever since Penguin's 75th Anniversary roadtrip I have intended to address the somewhat simultaneous release of Penguin 75, a sort of vanity book of Penguin covers. This book is delightful, but flawed. Delightful, but misleading.
In The Unicorn Hunt (1993), the fifth book of Dorothy Dunnett’s cycle of historical novels of early Renaissance Europe, the House of Niccolo, Dunnett tells of the deficiencies of wealthy merchant Anselm Adorne’s relations with women thus: His wife Margriet could have warned him. He was familiar with motherly wives and the skittish ways of other [...]
Janet Holmes, director of Ahsahta Press, based at Boise State University in Idaho, took the time this week to share her thoughts on poetry publishing as part of my ongoing series of publisher profiles. Ahsahta publishes seven full-length collections of poetry a year, including recent works by Kate Greenstreet, Lisa Fishman, Rusty Morrison, and Julie Carr. Like some other small presses, Ahsahta offers a yearly subscription option, which is one of my favorite ways to buy poetry and encounter the work of many poets who are new to me, as well as poets whose newest books I always look forward to reading. Janet says more about this and what it's like to craft a press's identity and consistent aesthetic.
An unfortunate side effect to the lengthy transition of print to digital is our long suffering endurance of stale articles in mainstream media rehashing the same points as every other article in mainstream media.
The latest articles published in between issues
In Ransom, Malouf satisfyingly gives us a meeting between Priam and Achilles that builds from the interiority of Priam. The novel seems to want to teach the importance of doing something human to those who might never get around to picking up Homer or who, if they do, might wish they could get into the character's heads.
Winterson has always told and retold the same fictions: of parents and children; of origins, and adoptions; of differences, of margins; of love; of passion; she has always manipulated rhythm and language as an excavation of sources. Much of her fiction mirrors what we know of Winterson's own story, but she agitates against the idea that her work has to be considered as fiction or autobiography, laying claim to both. In Art Objects she writes: "The question put to the writer 'How much of this is based on your own experience?' is meaningless. All or nothing may be the answer. The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts, it is an entirely different way of seeing"; a "separate reality." At every turn she eludes the critic, the interviewer, the reader; she offers truth, but not the truth. "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
It's difficult to pin down exactly why books as objects mean so much to me. I wasn't alive when William Goyen's excellent Come, The Restorer was published, but owning an original printing with the dust jacket—as it would have been purchased at the time of its release—makes the book more special to me than some beat-up paperback reissue. If it's signed, even more so. I'm only really interested in modern first editions (say, post-1950 or so)—before that books get quite expensive, but also I don't think they look as nice, since many were issued without dust jackets, and at that time the dust jacket wasn't considered a permanent part of the book, so they're often missing. So why the obsession and collecting, and why is it so important?
Wood can be harsh, yes, but he is seldom unfair. Wyatt Mason was wrong to accuse him of having suggested, by dint of a string of negative reviews, that no good contemporary literature exists. (He has written favorably of McEwan, Bolaño, Robinson, Ozick, Kirsch, Sebald, Roth, Saramago, Swift, Carey.) He never simply dismisses a writer (in the manor of, say, Dale Peck); on the contrary, his criticism, even at its most polemical and uncompromising, is inexplicably bound to larger concerns about the direction of contemporary fiction. Two major concerns have dominated James Wood's writing: realism and religion. In The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief, his first collection, newly available in paperback from Picador, these two concerns are beautifully imbricated, resulting in what is surely among the finest achievements in recent literary journalism.
To say that Mark McMorris's Entrepôt is about writing poetry is to do a huge disservice to this beautiful and penetrating book, whose ostensible subject of contemplation is how to live, love, and make do in a time of war, if not cultural crisis. On the other hand, the book's greatest service, at least to my eye, is in its exploration of just what it means to be a poet—I should be more specific and say a lyric poet—amid our contemporary terrors.