Authors: Robert W. Walker
Cuba Blue (33 page)
“Father,” asked Qui, “what book is this?”
The priest flipped back to a title page that read
Historia El Sanctuario de Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre
. “You bring home a bad memory, reminder of things long past.”
“This is so infuriating. You’re being about as much help as my other reluctant witnesses,” replied Qui.
“Your father and Arturo Benilo.” At the surprised look on her face, he added, “They called me earlier and warned you might turn up here.” He smiled, “Been expecting you.”
“Yes, my father and Benilo. They wouldn’t speak of whatever it is that happened at the basilica.”
“You’re asking us to stare at one of the darkest moments in the Revolution. When soldiers swept out of the hills and took over El Cobre.”
JZ urged the man to continue.
“War is wrong. Killing is wrong. That lock is like the murdered having come back to tell their story.”
“A story too long buried and never told,” Rita bitterly added.
“What do you propose we do, Father?” Qui asked. “We need answers before someone else turns up dead.”
“Let me assure you, you’ll only stir up a hornet’s nest going to the basilica with this.” He pointed at the lock.
Rita jumped in, “I’ll take you two up there.”
“No, Rita, I’ll take them.” The look exchanged between Rita and the priest spoke volumes; neither wanted the other taking risks. “Go home. You’ve done enough.”
Father Pasqual gathered up the book as Qui gathered up the lock and replaced it in its black sleeve. Rita said farewell and left them in the hands of the priest.
The most important shrine for Cubans and the most famous church in the country, the sanctuary at Cobra, rose up from Moboa Hill to greet visitors. To take their minds off the bone-jarring ride as the 1959 Volvo rattled up the steep incline, the taxi driver began telling his passengers the history of his vehicle, in which he took great pride. As he caressed the dashboard, Ramon began, “She’s the 120…the Amazon, built in 1959. First car in the world with three-point safety belts, still used today—a revolution at the time, just like here in Cuba!”
“How remarkable,” Qui replied facetiously. Hanging on to the back of Father Pasqual’s front seat, Qui eyed the holes in the worn upholstery. Alongside her, JZ winced and leaned forward to avoiding bumping his head against the roof with every bounce. The two smiled at one another as Ramon continued his soliloquy.
“My Amazon was brought here by a sugar-cane owner, who gave it to Fidel as a gift, hoping the Beard wouldn’t seize the family cane farm.”
After an especially tooth-jarring bump, Father Pasqual asked, “Ramon, you said you were going to replace her shocks. What happened?”
“Sorry Father…no parts. Have to hand-make them, takes time. Next week…maybe.” Ramon shrugged and grunted when JZ’s weight against his seat delivered a jolt, causing him to scan the rear-view mirror and apologize, “Sorry. Everyone OK back there?”
Through clenched teeth, JZ replied, “Fine except for my head…my arms…my knees…my butt.” Looking down at Qui, who’d slid into him for at least the tenth time, he asked, “How about you Qui?” Intensely aware of her warm skin, her scent reminded him of their previous night together. The rollercoaster ride kept his attention focused on protecting his head.
Just as well
, he thought ruefully.
“Oh, just wonderful,” Qui said. Ready to focus on anything other than the bumpy ride, she quickly added, “Ramon, how did you come by the car?”
“It’s a long story that’ll make the return trip more interesting. But now,” he continued, “to enhance your spiritual experience here in El Cobra,” he said to the young couple, obviously taking them for newlyweds on holiday, “there’s an inn behind the church,
Hospedería de la Caridad.”
“Yeah,” added Pasqual, “eight
pesos.”
“And they welcome foreigners, so long as you abide by the strict rules, Mr. Zayas.”
“There’s not much to their rooms,” commented Pasqual.
“Bare, yes, but well-kept rooms,” Ramon countered.
Cooped up in the Volvo for the past half hour, JZ longed for a four-wheel drive vehicle with a powerful air conditioner and a working suspension system. Sighing, he caught a glimpse of their final destination: the cathedral stood in splendor, framed by deep green forest, lodged amid the foothills of the Sierra Maestra near the old copper mines. The same mines that gave the area its name—
El Cobra.
Glancing over, Qui looked to where he stared and saw the same stunning sight.
Ideal photographic opportunity.
She imagined her father here with his camera, snapping shots of Fidel’s guerillas in their mountain camp. “Not surprised this place beckoned my father’s interest.”
“Or tourists,” replied JZ.
“Or pilgrims,” added Father Pasqual. “The faithful come in droves from across Cuba to pay homage to—and ask for protection from—the Black Madonna who is kept inside.” At this, Father Pasqual and Ramon made the sign of the cross.
Ramon murmured, “Blessings from the
Virgen de la Caridad.”
Father Pasqual explained the Black Madonna’s mysterious appeal along with a bit of her history. “She is the
protectress
of Cuba, and her image—cloaked in a glittering gold robe—is seen daily throughout the country in every shop window.”
Ramon added, “She is our Ochún.”
“A parallel figure from Afro-Cuban worship,” added JZ. “Goddess of rivers, gentleness, love, and femininity. Dark-skinned and dressed in bright yellow garments. Sort of a mix of Madonna and sensuality.”
“So you have studied our country after all,” Qui said as the Volvo lurched around a corner.
“My roots’re here too, Qui,” retorted JZ.
Father Pasqual continued, “In 1998, the Pope himself visited our humble shores, and he blessed the shrine, calling the Virgin ‘
La
Reina de los Cubanos
’.”
“Queen of Cubans,” JZ softly translated.
Ramon added, “The Holy Father donated a rosary and a jeweled crown to further adorn our Madonna.”
“According to legend, the Black Madonna, our patron saint, was rescued from the sea at the Bay of Nipe in 1611 by three young fishermen—”
“I heard it was three miners,” said the taxi driver.
“Depends on who’s telling the story, I suspect,” Qui added.
“Either version,” replied an annoyed Father Pasqual, “our saint was about to capsize in a storm, and the
fishermen
saw that our Madonna wore a sign around her neck—”
“Really? A sign, around her neck?” JZ inquired.
“Identified her, right Father?” added Qui.
“You know, she doesn’t speak.” Pasqual shot them a look of irritation at being interrupted yet again. “The sign read:
YO SOY LA VIRGEN DE LA CARIDAD
.”
“I am the Virgin of Charity.” JZ again translated for himself.
As the cab came to a standstill and stalled, a thin plume of smoke rose as they peeled themselves from the interior. Qui and JZ stretched while Father Pasqual, not to be sidetracked, continued speaking. “With the Black Madonna held firmly in their grasp, the three fishermen, struggling against the waves and the blasting storm, miraculously made it to shore with the statue.”
“Since then,” added Ramon, “pilgrims—who lots of times…make the last twenty…or thirty feet here…on their knees…”
Pasqual finished for him, adding, “—they pray to her image and place votos—”
“Mementos—” Qui put in.
“—and offerings of gratitude for her miracles,” finished the cabbie.
“Small carved wood images from animals to boats,” said Pasqual.
“Along with prayers for those who’ve tried to make it to Florida on rafts,” added Qui, “and failed.”
Pasqual nodded in earnest to this. “Your American author, Mr. Zayas, Ernest Hemingway—”
“
The Old Man & the Sea,
yes.”
“—his fisherman in the story made a promise to God. Do you recall it?”
“I…I’m sorry, I do not.”
“Ahhh…well, Hemmingway had the old Cuban promise to visit the shrine if he could only land his marlin—and when Hemmingway won his Nobel Prize for Literature, he donated it to our Black Madonna.”
Ramon said, “I’ll get my Amazon ready for the trip back; she’s thirsty and so am I.” He pointed to a nearby village nestled among the trees, leaving no doubt as to his intent.
“I read that the statue was once stolen?” asked JZ as they walked toward the rear entry to the basilica having come by way of a service road, thereby avoiding the 254 steps linking the village of El Cobre to the cathedral’s front entrance.
Father Pasqual replied, “Stolen, yes, but later recovered. Those who stole it…let’s just say horrible things befell them. Steps were taken. It’ll never happen again.”
“What sort of steps?” asked JZ, ever conscious of security matters.
“It once stood in the hermitage created for it,” said Father Pasqual. “Everyone could approach and pray at will. She was unadorned and unprotected.”
“So, where is she now?”
“On the second floor,” the priest pointed at the cathedral, adding, “up the back stairs, encased in glass, air conditioned. Untouchable. When Mass is said, at the push of a button, there she is, bejeweled and enshrined, the Virgin. You must see her.”
Having been alerted by Father Pasqual’s phone call, Father Francisco Cevalos stood like a sentinel at the door. “My young colleague and friend, it’s so good to see you again. So who are these important people who get the easy route into Basilica de Nuestra Seńora de la Caridad del Cobre?”
“Gotta be the longest name for a church I’ve ever heard,” JZ commented as he shook hands with the tall older priest. “Julio Zayas.”
“Almost a letter for each step out front,” added Qui. “Detective Quiana Aguilera, Havana PNR.”
Eyes widening at hearing Quiana’s title, Father Cevalos turned to JZ and asked, “And you, Mr. Zayas, your accent says you’re not Havana PNR.” He quizzically raised an eyebrow.
“I’m with the American Interest Section.”
Turning to Pasqual, Cevalos said, “Gabriel, you can’t legitimately beat me at chess, so you bring in reinforcements—with badges?”
The two men enjoyed a good laugh, and as Father Cevalos waved them inside, he said, “I overheard Father Pasqual giving you a lesson about our Madonna when I interrupted. Let me finish for him.”
The group entered the shadowed cool interior of the cathedral, following Father Cevalos whose voice echoed off the high-ceilings as he led them behind the alter through passageways few people ever saw. “Our Black Madonna might be untouchable now, but on her day, September eighth, she is carried in pilgrimage for all to see. Not everyone can make the climb. Since you come with Gabriel’s blessing, let me show you our Lady.”
The group climbed to the second floor and walked along narrow silent hallways until arriving at a locked room. Flourishing a key, Father Cevalos opened the door, swinging it wide for them to enter. In a moment, Qui and JZ stood in silent awe before the Black Madonna. Wearing a crown encrusted with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, with a golden halo above, she held a cross of diamonds and amethysts. In the glass case, the statue appeared beatific and serene as if she whispered the words—peace, hope, love, and charity. Her liquid-black eyes bore into Qui’s, transfixing her.
Father Pasqual turned to his friend, commenting, “She has been entranced by the Lady.”
Cevalos replied, “I wonder if Detective Aguilera was called here by the Lady to begin with.”
Noticing Qui’s silence, JZ wondered what she thought of Father Cevalos’s profound words, or even if she heard them.
Startled, Qui now stared from JZ to the two priests. “She’s given me a message.”
33
Miramar, the Aguilera Bed and Breakfast
Over a late lunch, Tomaso, Yuri, and Sergio were joined by Benilo to share what details each had learned.
Yuri calmly announced to those at the table, “I took the liberty of inviting Detective Peña to join us. I sense time is running out, and there’s no room for error. We need answers.”
