Holy Smoke

Espinosa sits facing Margarita Troya, a friend from Havana. Next to the Cuban pair are two young Hondurans, beautiful, ink-eyed women. Sandra Hernandez and Mirna Ochoa Martinez have followed their husbands to Miami and now work to send money back home to support their children, who they've left with relatives. As for Troya, her sixteen-year-old son arrived in Miami from Cuba just the day before. From a plastic shopping bag placed next to her knockoff Louis Vuitton purse, she removes a pair of rubber flip-flops that she has bought for her son and shows them to her friends. Then sits down with a sigh and continues stripping leaves.

A stream of cigar makers appears in the doorway, asking for wrappers. Some stop to flirt, while others complain about the size or condition of the leaves. The women impatiently wave them away and keep counting the wrapper leaves.

Tomorrow Espinosa will have spent a year living in the U.S. after arriving from Cuba; she shares a place in Northwest Miami with a sister who came over during Mariel. She finds everything difficult. "Only the strong survive here," she sighs. "That's the law of the jungle. What I like least about Miami is that I have to depend on people for everything. I don't have a car, I don't have anything. I'm just lost in a lettuce field. If it keeps up like this, I'm gathering up my things and going back to Cuba."

In the nine-floor tobacco factory where Espinosa and Troya worked in Central Havana, 400 women were employed as espalilladoras. Espinosa learned the trade at age twenty after taking a three-month course offered at the factory. That was 21 years ago.

"We started doing this because there wasn't any other work," she explains. "We made a relatively good salary. By working long hours, we could make more than the girls in the office." But more recently in Cuba those pesos could buy less and less. Here at El Credito, the espalilladoras make a fixed $4.25 an hour.

Thirty-six-year-old Troya arrived here from Cuba eight months ago. Like Espinosa, she has not adapted well to Miami. "I come from another system," she says crankily. "I grew up with the revolution. People say we don't like it here because we have to work. Well, I've worked all my life in Cuba, but here when you work there's a lot of stress. I know it's one of the most developed countries in the world, but I don't feel good here. Life is so fast. You look up and it's Thursday. And it's not only work, it's everything. Maybe you can have everything here, but there's no life. As soon as Fidel falls, I'm going back to Cuba."

Gregorio Carrel remembers when his grandmother bought cigars. "That was my father's mother. She'd bring one home, take a big bite off the end, and chew it," explains Carrel, moving his mouth by way of illustration. "She could get five or six good-sized pieces out of every cigar."

Another of the cigar makers at El Credito, Carrel works with a lighted stogy in his mouth, talking about the days when men who performed his job were considered dandies. "We were always partying," he remembers. Even at age 68, Carrel cuts a fine figure, a handsome mulatto in gray workpants, a T-shirt, and a Marlins cap. He sits in the center row of the gallery. "Cigar makers dressed well," he notes. "They drank a lot, too. I lived well at one time. I had quite a lot of money in my pocket."

Carrel had five cousins and an uncle who made cigars in Havana, and started as a cigar maker himself when he was fourteen. Until 1957 he worked in several small Cuban factories; that year he joined the prestigious Partagas export factory. "The big factories were where you made more money," he says, biting down on the cigar in his mouth. "Only the best cigar makers got in there. There was a probation period. After 30 days, if they hadn't thrown you out, you knew you were in. We shipped cigars all over the United States, all over the world. I made Mr. Churchill's cigars, you know."

In 1961 Carrel was reassigned to the Coronas factory, where he stayed for 22 years. "There were some changes after the revolution," he recounts. "Before, making cigars was one of the most flexible professions in Cuba, because you could make your own hours. Since you were paid by the piece, you could decide how much you wanted to do and when you wanted to do it. After, you had to complete eight hours every day or else you wouldn't get paid."

Two years ago Carrel immigrated to Miami and found work at El Credito. "I'm on a sort of mission," he whispers, explaining that he works to support his family in Cuba. He picks up some leaves and spreads them in his hand. "To take some leaves and transform them into a cigar is an art," he says. "It's like a painter with his brush. This isn't easy, you know.

But if you have energy, you should keep working."
At 5:30 in the afternoon, eight employees still sit working, a wall of hexagon-shaped cigar bundles they've produced during the day looming directly in front of them. El Credito adheres to the same practice as the old Cuban cigar factories: Cigar makers work as they please, going out to run errands or to pick up spouses or children, then returning. The office stays open weekdays until 7:00 p.m.; Saturday hours are from 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.