Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (29 page)

For one thing, I would never dream of going to the United States again. Not in a year. Not in two years. Not ever. If I still hated Fidel Castro for this prison he had created and the misery he continued to inflict upon his own people, how betrayed I now felt by the United States, stabbed in the back by all its pretense and promises. America. So much like the ocean. So silky and alluring on the surface. So deep and dark a monster underneath. Constantly stretching, spreading, hunting new prey. America and its Eagle. Not a bird of might or majesty—but a bird of prey. Uncle Sam. Just as crotchety and incorrigible an old man as our own great uncle. Both men always having to assume control of everything. How much a hand had the United States played in all this? How much had they engineered this all themselves?
Back to the negotiating table
. Wasn’t that what the absurd little man had said? Had the Americans walked away from that table on purpose? Had they deliberately simmered that pressure cooker to the point it would explode? How much had Uncle Sam possibly conspired with our own Cuban uncle?

I had to stop myself. I was assuming too much. How
betrayed I felt by the United States now and all it represented: the ambition and consumerism, the greed and illusion. That was all it stood for. Land of blinding delusions. Land of cruel separations. I decided then and there I would rather starve in Cuba and dream about freedom than be a slave to the United States of Avarice. No wonder the angel had admonished me not to go there. No wonder. God's next child had to be born anywhere in the world except that dangerous place.

Freedom. How I savored that right now. How free it felt to know precisely where I stood. Determined never to step foot on American soil—how liberating it all felt. I would do it from here. I would fight Fidel Castro from within the walls of this inferno. Surely another miracle would strike, a true miracle like that of August 5. A rebellion. A revolt. This time I’d partake in the uprising. I’d weave myself into the insurrecton and gladly give my life if necessary. I believed this as Rigo got sucked into the hunger of that horizon. I presumed I’d lose my life long before seeing him again. As that float made of sugarcane evaporated into the mists, I was certain I would die and go to Heaven long before we locked eyes again. But I was wrong. Even as I stood there, myself dissolving into a tiny grain of sand within all those endless grains of sand, I may have believed all this, assumed all this, but I was wrong.

In the remaining days of my life I would indeed see Rigo once more. Only once. It would happen many years later, long after this morning of August 15 in the year of our Lord 1994. By then, however, so much would be changed, so much would be different, his presence would have no effect on me whatsoever. No sadness. No hopefulness. No sense of loss either.

If one had ever taken solace in the notion that love could pick up where it left off, what a mistake to assume that. If one had ever taken solace in thinking that love could always revive its step along that endless parade of marvels and intimacies and the infinite wonders that it delights in creating, what an incorrect assumption.

By the time Rigo and I were to see each other again, so
much would happen, so much would transpire, it seemed as if the world had already ended and started anew, that the Earth had simply been obliterated and been newly reborn. By then we would be such completely different people that one would safely assume we had never loved each other at all. By then we would feel so completely foreign to each other, one would assume we had never even known each other at all. But none of that mattered for the time being. At present I took no solace in anything. I simply wanted to move away from where I stood and step off this rocky shore, overcome by that sickening smell of coffee again to the point I began to gag.

What was the matter with me? Why did I feel seasick even though I clearly wasn’t at sea? And why could I detect the odor of greasy food from what seemed miles away? Was this the result of not eating anything all morning? I didn’t know. But I did feel a new clash of movement taking place internally, inside me, some kind of motion sickness though my feet were planted firmly on the ground. As the waves of some vile and advancing nausea swelled deep from within and brought everything rushing upward, I felt my head turning and circling, spinning furiously into some dusk of uncharted disgust. I felt grimy from the spray of sea salt, and every strand of hair on my head felt wildly out of place. It may have been midmorning, but I no longer felt alert or awake. Sure enough my legs gave way so that, next thing I knew, I lay motionless on the ground.

I had fainted. In a spectacle within a spectacle, I crashed down near the shore. How could I not have? Rigo had just stranded me. The one and only love of my life had just vanished beyond the ocean for good. Into a land of fog and darkness guarding the entrance to Hades. Telling me he loved and cherished me, but casting me aside. For no less than a year at that! When already we had spent so much time apart in our brief marriage. How could anyone not feel sick and weak after so inconsiderate an act?
Impossible!
I struggled to stay alert. I battled to remain fully awake, trying to brush the incident off and fight the criss-cross of emotions.

But I couldn’t do it. I had not the force. I had not the will.
As the soothing strands of unconsciousness undid their tight weave and fully came undone, I felt relief in knowing I could no longer fight anything. I simply lacked the strength as my body hit the ground. I may have only fainted for a matter of seconds, but I took solace in knowing that it felt like hours upon hours.

6

solace

august 15

mid morning

W
ake up, compañera! But, please, be careful!
You may have a concussion, so please, don’t move any!”

I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I couldn’t even budge. As my eyes fluttered open, and I came to with a start, I found a face looking down on me, sturdy and strong. I didn’t know this face, yet it looked vaguely familiar. Its clear brown eyes seeking to comfort me; its gentle smile trying to assure me. The expression on this face gave such warmth, I didn’t want to move. It was only upon realizing exactly what I looked at, that my body stiffened and I slightly recoiled. It was nothing less than one of the mongrels in blue, crouching down right over me just inches from where I lay.

“¿Qué pasó?” I asked startled. “What happened?”

“You blacked out, compañera, right here along on the shore. Are you all right? You think you’re hurt?”

What a question! Did the mongrel really need to ask? Couldn’t he tell? Of course, I was hurt. Of course, I wasn’t all right. Not only was I light headed and nauseous still, I was disconsolate, dejected, drowning deep in a dusk of despair. But more than anything, I felt repulsed, disgusted to have one of the mongrels in blue crouched down so close to me.

“I blacked out?” I asked. “But how? I…I don’t understand. I don’t remember anything.”

By now it wasn’t just the mongrel in blue hovering over me but a crowd of spectators swarming about, all the countenances of Cojimar: the curiosity seekers, the caregivers, the clowns—they had all gathered round to partake of the spectacle. For a moment the focus was off the water and onto the sand; off those fleeing and onto those fainting. And a mongrel sat huddled in their midst, but whispers abounded about the other spectacle everyone had just witnessed: the officer stripping down to his shorts and jumping onto the raft, the very same raft I should have been on. Nobody knew what to make of it, whether it had all been real or some kind of stunt. One thing was real: how quickly his remnants had been collected, how swiftly a responding pack of mongrels rushed over to whisk away the uniform, baton, and gun.

“Don’t worry, compañera! Don’t you worry any!” said the mongrel crouched over me. “I’ve radioed for assistance and a car is on its way. Just stay put. Make sure you don’t move any, please.”

Had he just said car? As in police car?
Now I wouldn’t stay put even if I wanted to. Hopefully he’d meant ambulance, but I doubted it.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I don’t need a car. I’m perfectly fine.”

I finally began to move. I even managed to switch from sprawled on my side to flat on my back. But the moment I went to prop my elbows up underneath me and hoist myself up, the onlookers leaped into action and launched into a litany of advice.

“¡No, chica! ¡No!” they urged in near unison. “He’s right.
You may have a concussion! You shouldn’t be moved.”

“Quick! Get her some saltwater,” someone suggested. “It’s the best thing for fainting.”

“That’s smelling salts, chico! Not saltwater,” another countered.

“I meant for her face!” explained the prior person. “I meant to throw on her, not to drink.”

“Look!” someone chimed in. “She’s passing out again! What she needs is CPR! What she needs is resuscitation.”

“I can do that!” some guy eagerly volunteered. “I’m certified in that.”

As the crowd burst into laughter, I took notice of this individual and his grungy appearance. He reminded me of a mangy street dog, like the ones so prevalent throughout the streets of Havana, abandoned and neglected animals scrounging around for whatever scraps they could find. The sight of this flea-bitten creature revolted me. He too looked familiar, even if I couldn’t figure out why. Regardless, I was not passing out again. I needed no resuscitation. What I needed was to be left alone. As the crowd swarmed and swelled about me that was all I wanted, but there was no getting through to the onlookers or quelling their solicitude.

“Thank you all very much, really,” I called out. “You’re all very kind, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine now and I’m getting up.”

The crowd protested at once. They objected vigorously that I knew not what I was doing, that I was in grave danger of seriously hurting myself. But I proceeded anyway. Only the mongrel seemed to respect my wishes. He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet so that, at last, the crowd stepped back and cleared the path.

“I believe this is yours, compañera,” he said to me.

I looked down. In his hands were my belongings, the items that Rigo had wrapped up neatly in a plastic sheath.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

I reached out to retrieve them, but the mongrel held onto my possessions like a dog with a bone.

“That’s all right, compañera,” he smiled. “I’ll carry it for you. I don’t want you exerting yourself any.”

“It’s no trouble,” I insisted. “I’ll take it.”

He relented, handing me back what were probably the most important possessions I had in life: my journals, the prayer cards, the infamous letter to my father from Iraq, my birth certificate and carnét. How grimy I began to feel, and itchy too. Sand covered me in patches, and with my back to the ocean, I dusted myself off. Several in the crowd tried lending assistance, looking for a towel I might use as they peppered me with questions.
Where are you from, compañera? Where do you live? Do you want to go to the hospital? Do you want anyone to accompany you? Are you hungry or thirsty at all? Surely you must be thirsty. No!
I screamed inwardly.
No!
I wanted to be left alone, not pried or picked at. I wanted to block out everything surrounding me. But despite the deafening screams inside my head, I couldn’t drown out the clamor of Cojimar, especially the whispers of this swarming crowd that:
I was the one, the girl who had backed out at the last moment as my companions took off
. I thought I might black out again. I felt my legs giving way until that slimy individual, the one who had offered to resuscitate me, brought me crashing into consciousness, the full throes of it.

“It’s all right, compañera. There’s still time if you want.”

Before I could ask
time for what
, an unnerving scream punctuated the moment.

“¡Mire!”
one of curiosity-seekers yelled out excitedly. “Look over there!”

The crowd quickly reset its sights, shifting its focus from ‘all things sand’ to ‘all things water,’ from fainting maiden to fleeing men. It swarmed toward shore to a raft resembling a horse cart—yes, a horse cart of all things! It was called
el Caballo del Mar
, which they had painted red and gray. Seven passengers boarded as the craft prepared to push off. My caregivers had gone to cheer this group of rafters on and their
slightly worrisome vessel. Only two mongrels remained faithfully at my side: the mongrel in blue and the mongrel in rags—that grungy and disheveled animal that made me disgustedly uncomfortable.

There was something odd about him, something vaguely reminiscent. It wasn’t until I took note of his eyebrows and how they connected in the middle that I realized what: he looked just like the driver from this morning.
Este tipo
reminded me exactly of the preposterous little man who ran tirelessly at the mouth. But
este tipo
was not short or muscular or balding. He was tall and thin, and he had a full head of hair. He had a broken front tooth and another one entirely missing from along the top of his mouth. He wasn’t dressed in Jordache jeans or a Calvin Klein shirt, but he had exactly the same face as the driver! He even had a similar voice, low and gruff, with those eyebrows that connected in the middle like two cockroaches joined at the head. He drove no taxi. His only mode of transportation seemed to be a Chinese bicycle. But he might as well have been the driver’s fraternal twin.

“Hurry, compañera! Hurry, so you can go and make it!”

“Make what?” I asked perplexed.

“Over there!” he pointed out. “Don’t you see what’s happening? The group in the horse cart is getting ready to push off. Look! They’ve got room for one more. Why don’t you see if you can jump on and join them? You’ve still got time, compañera. It’s not too late to catch up to your companions.
¡Dale!
Move!”

Even if someone had jolted me with volts of electricity, I couldn’t move right now. What a foul and disgusting animal stood before me, a true mongrel. He really was the incarnation of the taxi driver, the man’s malicious twin. Clearly, I was being haunted. Some horrible curse had befallen me: the Curse of Cojimar, where all my failings and weaknesses would forever be examined and exploited. How had this perfect stranger managed to zero in on the most vulnerable moment of my life and rub my face into it? How had he succeeded in peeling back the layers of my misfortune
to make a mockery of it?