Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (26 page)

I knew nothing of the linguistic correlations to the Cimmerians or their ancient language. But while my father and his colleagues hotly debated all these esoteric notions—
and at times their discussions grew heated and impassioned over cigars and shots of rum and servings of
guayaba
marmalade poured over cream cheese—I loved hearing all his description of the Cimmerians and the forbidden land of Crimea they once inhabited.

“It was beyond the ocean,” he would explain. “A land of fog and darkness, at the edge of the world and at the entrance to Hades, along the edge of a dark and gloomy forest.”

It was the last vacation we took as a family, and I would always recall it bittersweetly. My father could not relax. I remember our last evening in Cojimar as we sat along the seawall enjoying a rare treat of ice cream. How I wished Papi would simply savor and delight in that cool and sweet refreshment, along with the calming sight of the ocean, blue-gray and bleeding, and the blood-rust sun setting in the distance. How I wished he would tell me more about the mythical land of Crimea. But it never happened. He was too engrossed in his scholarly journal and his erudite thoughts. My father could never stop working. He could never just give of himself or give us his undivided attention.

I never knew what became of his research or whether his thesis about the Cimmerians ever got published. I doubted it; especially after what happened during his stint in Iraq and how his career in Cuba ended in such disgrace. But I certainly knew what became of the Cimmerians. They were alive and well, right here in Cojimar, all the messy multitudes of them, these modern-day Cimmerians who had been living in perpetual darkness at the edge of the world and the entrance to Hades.

It was a spectacular sight to behold, really it was. It seemed as if all the waters of the planet had funneled into the Bay of Cojimar and amassed into a shifting blend of oceans and seas. Seas of blue—the blue of the mongrels. Seas of bicycles—the Chinese bikes so prevalent these days. Seas of young people. Old people. Very Old People. Onlookers. Participants. Detractors. Curiosity Seekers. Adventurers. Most of all, seas of Dreamers. It was part parade, part procession. There were even shrines to La Virgen del Cobre
set up everywhere. Some stationary. Some mobile. And we were all subject to severe food shortages during this Special Period, but there was even ‘food to go’ being provided for the multitudes: everything from pork
bocaditos
and
croquetas
to yucca and
chicharrones
.

Who were all these people and where had they come from? Why did they look so strange? Could it be true? Could that absurd little man have possibly been correct? Were the multitudes gathered here just everyday Cimmerians like Rigo and me, or some of Fidel's convicts? Fidel's mental patients. Loyalists and infiltrators going abroad only to gather intelligence for our great uncle. Was this really all a miracle or just a second Mariel? I regarded everyone with suspicion and mistrust now, as possibly having a secret agenda. Maybe I should come clean with Rigo myself, no matter how crazy the vision last night sounded. Who knew? Maybe he would actually believe in it. I should at least let him decide.

“Amor,” I began in earnest. “There’s something I need to tell you, something important.”

We were standing by Hemingway’s bust and Rigo turned to face me quickly, his eyes glowing with a brewing excitement. We may have been on land still, but his heart and mind were already on open water, navigating their way forth, tackling the peaks and valleys of the waves with the aid of that compass his father had given him.

“What is it, amor? Tell me anything you want. You know that."

But what could I tell him? How could I possibly relay the vision I’d had? The dream. The hallucination. The visitation or whatever it was. I’d take a stab at it no matter how tenuous.

“Well amor, you see, last night when you were gone I…well, I thought I was falling asleep when…”

But I could not continue. My words faltered in some crisis of motion. I could not weave the strands of language together to merge a sensible thought.

“Yes, amor,” he urged. “Go on. You know you don’t have to be afraid with me; you can tell me anything. What happened last night, Clara?”

But I couldn’t shake this unwelcome pause. Not even as I struggled to ferret out the words from deep within. I couldn’t unearth them; they refused to rise. I could only stand there mute as Rigo fixed his gaze on me, as this curious scene surrounding us kept unfolding in a clash of movement: from all the people shifting back and forth, to the would-be
balseros
putting finishing touches on their rafts; from those actually pushing off into the water, to those who came only to spectate, clapping and cheering vigorously each time someone launched off and set sail. Even Rigo joined in the applause when one such group took off. I, however, couldn’t move or make a sound. I wrapped myself in a crisis of silence until, unexpectedly, I felt a hand tapping my shoulder.

“Coño, chica. Where have you two been?” asked Amalia. “We were starting to get worried about you.”

How ecstatic I was to see my best friend. The mere sight of her released that tight chokehold over my thoughts and words. But if I embraced her presence like a dose of salvation, it wouldn’t be that way for long; the morning was destined to unravel quickly. For the moment, however, I admired how stunning and alive she looked. She was dressed in tan shorts and a white top. Her hair was gathered back in a ponytail; two tiny earrings of gold hung from her ears. She looked like her old self again, brimming with life and energy, certainly not the motionless cadavar from the night before. Whatever had possessed Amalia last night, she had gotten it out of her system. The two of us hugged and greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, while Henry and Rigo shook hands.

“We're on time, aren’t we?” I asked.

“Sí, chica, sí. I guess I’m just a ball of nerves is all.”

“Where is it?” Rigo asked excitedly. “Where’s our ship?”

“Over there,” Henry pointed out, some fifty yards away. “In fact, let’s head over there before someone steals it. There have been several thefts this morning already."

I felt a sickening malaise unfolding in my stomach. It had to be the excitement, the nervousness that one feels before a race or a test. Pilar always told me that, despite years of running competitively, she always felt sick to her stomach right before a race. It had to be the same thing. Wasn’t this just a race for our lives? I tried suppressing the feeling. But as we made our way through the throngs of people, it dawned on me what I would always recall about this morning of August 15: a clash of movement and motion.

I didn’t know what else to call it. A collision of the quick with the slow; a spar between the up and the down; a conflict between the forward and the backward, even a clash between that which circled and that which dispersed. Commotion and chaos, yet confidence and calm. These were the conflicting qualities of this morning in motion. But no movement caught my attention more than the water itself, and how, instead of rushing and receding, it flowed only in one direction, one motion: forward and outward. I was so mesmerized by this phenomenon that I never realized we had reached our famed vessel, La Maloja.

There it was, finally before me. And I have to say that, the moment I laid eyes on this raft, all my anxieties dissipated, even about its name. It was beautiful, captivating—really it was! It was also the only raft of its kind there. La Maloja was three layers thick of sugarcane stalks, the most exquisite sugarcane I had ever seen: bathed in bright yellow and light-green and interspersed with hints of orange. But it was the shadings of green that dominated the palette: a textured translucent green that appeared to have been polished and emulsified. The paddles were sugarcane stalk too, but with the sturdy bark of royal palm attached as oars. The vessel sat like a silent flame of color shimmering in the sand. The paddles stood like two swords crossed in a regal and protective stance. Only the bottom layer was tightly wrapped and encased in the magical maloja that would guarantee the raft’s bouyancy.

“Well,” Rigo asked without any hesitation. “When are we doing it? Is there anything we’re waiting for?”

“That all depends,” Henry said. “Do we want to take off by ourselves, or do we want to take off as part of a group? I was speaking to those guys over there and they said we could push off with them if we wanted.”

Whatever Rigo’s response, I never heard it. Just then I became aware of the only bodies, the only entities this morning, who seemed devoid of this clash of motion, the only group whose every movement seemed uniform and in sync.

“Why all the policemen?” I asked. “Are they stopping people? Or are they looking for someone?”

“Oh no,” replied Amalia. “They couldn’t care less. They’re just making sure that anyone who leaves is over eighteen and is leaving freely, that nobody is being coerced.”

“That’s a good one!” Rigo scoffed. “What do they know about free will around here! Especially the police!”

I wanted Rigo to be careful. The mongrels still had the ability to mess with us if they so wished. They could still detain us if they wanted.

“Well, fortunately that’s not anything we to have to worry about anymore, is it?” said Amalia. “This damned Communism, this stinking Socialist dictatorship. You know what?” she said, nearly foaming. “Let's not wait for anybody. Let’s just go by ourselves as we planned.”

“Yeah!" Rigo declared. “I’m all for that. But before we do, I want to pray first. I want to ask for God’s blessing.”

We all concurred with so excellent a suggestion, throwing our belongings onto the raft as it sat stationary along the sharp and rocky shore. The four of us then joined together and formed a circle. We clasped our hands in unison and closed our eyes reverently as Rigo led us in prayer.

“Father in Heaven,” he began solemnly. “We gather here this morning to ask You for your blessing. We gather here to ask You for your protection and assistance. As we leave behind our homeland to embark upon a new life, please guide us safely across the water, please be with us the entire time we sail. Let us complete this journey safely, Father. Not
just us, but everyone here. Heavenly Father, all-knowing God that You are, You know why we’re doing this. You know that none of us want to risk our lives carelessly, that precious life you’ve given us and which we honor. But it is precisely because we honor and treasure that gift that we now commit ourselves to this choice. You know our desperation, Father. You know our suffering and misery and how life will never change here. You and you alone know this, Father, and have granted us this miracle. And so, Father, we petition you one last time: please join us this morning and light our way. Know that our intentions are pure and genuine and that we do this out of love for our families more than anything else. Thank you for your understanding and, once again, bless us and accompany us along this crossing. Thank you, Father. Amen.”

As Rigo finished this prayer so moving, this invocation so eloquent, I could not release his hand. We all said
amén
in unison, but I could not open my eyes or look up. I didn’t know about my companions, but I was still holding on, clutching Amalia’s hand on one side and Rigo’s on the other—clasping both of them tightly, fiercely—as it all came back to me, rushing but not receding.

I was back in my bed in Centro Habana unable to sleep. The apparition of the Angel Gabriel had just departed. Not only could I hear his words reverberating through my head, I was reliving the entire experience, bombarded with all his tidings and admonitions: the news that God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, had decided to have another child; that this time it would be a daughter; that I, a poor Cuban girl, had been selected as the mother of this daughter; that this daughter not only had to be born in Cuba, but raised in Cuba too.
“Remember, Clara,”
the angel said to me.
“You must not take that trip tomorrow! Whatever you do, you must not take that trip!”

I had to tell Rigo. No matter how ridiculous or crazy it all sounded, I had to make the confession. Why was I assuming he would reject the story? That he’d regard the incident as insane? He obviously had a spiritual side, latent though it
may be. Look at how he had just anointed this undertaking with so inspirational a supplication. Clearly my husband was more profound a believer than he realized. I had to tell him then. I must give him the chance to know and now was the ideal moment if ever. I went to divulge this awkward secret of mine, but suddenly, without any provocation, another awkwardness crept into my mind: the sight of our driver this morning, the recollection of that absurd and narcissistic little man. Why could I not wipe his smug countenance from before me? Why could I not erase the imprint of his voice or block the impression of his words?

I felt my blood begin to boil. As the man’s face hovered about me, and as his revelations about immigration talks and negotiating tables and Fidel’s convicts and mental patients began to unfurl, all talk of angels and miracles no longer seemed relevant. It no longer mattered that God’s chief messenger had paid me a visit about anything. In a clash of motion that demanded halting, a moment of truth descended upon me. The strands of a much higher truth were weaving themselves tersely and tautly, and ironically, I had the absurd little man to thank for it.

“I’m not going!” I blurted out, opening my eyes and releasing my hands from both grips to each side of me. “I’m not going anywhere!”

All three wasted no time in looking my way, and clearly, from their frozen expressions, they knew not what to think, knew not if I was joking or serious.

“Very funny, chica. Very funny,” said Amalia. “Now let’s go. I really want to push off now.”

“I’m not joking, Amalia. I’m not leaving.”

A crisis of silence wrapped around those three faces now. The shifting collage along that shore swirled all about us and collided unabated, but in this little corner of Cojimar we couldn't hear a sound or detect any motion. My companions continued staring at me, not knowing what to say or do or unable to determine whether I was playing a joke or in the throes of a panic attack, but Henry spoke next, figuring my
nerves needed soothing.