Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (5 page)

“Isn’t the Feast of the Assumption when Mary dies and her body rises up to Heaven?” he asked his wife.

“Yes, mijo. You didn’t know that already? Or you just don’t remember your catechism anymore?”

“¡Coño mija! Why then, of all the saints in Heaven, are you praying to her? Doesn’t it make sense that tomorrow, on this Feast of the Assumption, the Virgin will only make it easier for our daughter to take off and leave? Doesn’t that strike you like a ton of bricks?”

“First of all, the Virgin is not a saint. She’s the mother of God. Secondly, she doesn’t work that way—you’ll see, you’ll see,
cabrón!
”

“Well, that’s what it seems like to me,” he snidely pointed out. “That tomorrow will be the one day the Virgin helps everyone escape as if they’re dying and going somewhere! Where, I don’t know. But somewhere!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, chico,” she shot back. “As always, you never know what you’re talking about—never!”

“Just make sure she takes a bite of the raspadura,” one of the great aunts from Cienfuegos interjected. “That will make Amalia come to her senses, you’ll see.”

“Raspadura!” the mother spit out in disgust. “How is that going to help? That toxin! That crap that’s nothing but pure poison!”

Amalia’s father grew mortified. Not only had his wife just sworn in his presence, she had disrespected his family roots and their entire Cuban identity. He raised his hand high in the air and held it there as if to strike her down, but the gesture failed to faze his wife. It did not intimidate her in any way, especially under protection of her veil.

“Go ahead! I dare you!” she said to him, raising a hand too and hardening her face at him. “Go ahead, hit me! See then if this won’t be the last night of your life!”

On and on it went, the entire time a series of one scrape after another. As Amalia lay there in her state of solemnness and tranquility, I didn’t know if she was paying attention, ignoring it, or simply letting the snarling swirl all about her. But I caught it all: the sniping, the snippets, the sneering. It floated into the back room and back out again, wafting up and down the hallway and back toward uncharted regions of the house. Several times I wanted to get up and close the door, but I stopped myself. This was not my house; I had no right. Besides, each time I motioned toward the door, one of the Cienfuegos relatives popped a face in to have a look.

“No,” they’d dutifully report before turning around and going along their way. “She still hasn’t touched it.”

Only her father made direct eye contact with either of us that night, especially me, waiting for everyone to disperse from the doorway before entering the room and kneeling at Amalia’s bedside, before addressing her reverently and speaking in hushed and remorseful tones. All to no avail. Each time he did so, his daughter refused to acknowledge him. Each time the man knelt down and dug his fingers into the bedspread as emotion got the better of him, she remained motionless, staring up at the ceiling with both hands folded over chest. I was the only person in the entire house she communicated with that evening of August 14. Somehow we managed to shield ourselves from the ensuing antics by staying focused on our plans for the following day.

"Well, chica, it’s a good thing you’ve brought that up,” she said, her voice slow and hollow, her eyes fixed on the ceiling still. “You see, there’s been a slight change in plans.”

“Oh?” I said. “What type of change in plans?”

“Nothing to worry about. Everything is still on. It’s just that Henry and I can’t go to Cojimar with you in the morning. He’s already there.”

Just then I noticed her fingernails painted in a bright red polish and wondered where she’d gotten it. Cienfuegos, maybe? I hadn’t seen polish that red in ages. And her complexion had just turned a shade lighter. Either the ceiling
light kept blanching her skin into some vanilla veneer, or the rays of that inner white sun kept radiating across the expanse of her body.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing too catastrophic, chica. Nothing that can’t be fixed by morning.”

“Catastrophic!” I said.

“Well, nothing too serious, just a little setback.”

“What type of setback?”

“Well, it seems that for just one moment today, Henry left the raft unattended, and when he went back to it, one whole side was missing.”

I wanted to bend over my friend again. Not to embrace her. Just to feel for her breath, just to feel for a pulse. I needed to see if she was merely playing dead or really not alive.

“What!” I exclaimed. “Are you joking?”

“No, chica, I’m not. But don’t worry. He’s fixing it as we speak.”

“But how could such a thing happen?” I asked. “How did they have enough time to do that?”

“Are you surprised, Clara? Don’t you know what it’s like out there right now? What a mess it is.”

Speaking of messes, something else caught my attention besides all the raspadura, besides the parade of faces from the countryside and the statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by flowers and candles. As much as I loved my friend, Amalia was an inveterate slob, pathologically messy. Her room was always a walking disaster. But not tonight. Tonight everything was inexplicably neat and orderly. Not one item thrown about or strewn on the ground or mildly out of place. Not a fleck of dust anywhere in sight. Even her bed was neatly made, a pale pink bedspread hugging the mattress tightly.

“What does this mean?” I asked. “What are we going to
do?”

“Well, good thing is the thieves left all the maloja in tact, the outer lining. The bad news is they made off with most of the sugarcane stalks.”

“The sugarcane stalks! Isn’t that the crux of the vessel?”

“Yes, chica, but you know how smart that boyfriend of mine is, the way he always thinks ahead. He prepared for such an emergency and has plenty of stalks on hand.”

I thought a dose of relief might be in order, but I remained anxiously silent. My heart pulsated and paced with worry and my eyes glazed over in misgiving. I stared down at the raspadura by the bedside and wished I could bite into it, but I focused on the bright red nail polish and wished I had that instead. I was relieved by one thing: that Rigo was not present to hear this. Not with his dislike of Henry or how he had mocked construction of the raft. If Rigo were to learn what I just had, he’d change his mind and immediately back out.

“So we’re not leaving tomorrow then? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh no, chica, we’re definitely leaving tomorrow. But that’s why we can’t join you in the morning. You see, I’m leaving for Cojimar tonight. I need to help Henry weave the stalks back together.”

“At this hour!” I protested. “You can’t go to Cojimar at this hour. How will you get there? Not only that, you’re in no shape to work, Amalia. Just look at you!”

What was happening? I couldn’t decipher it—whether all this seeming casualness was merely a form of denial or there really was no cause for concern. My friend’s revelation did not bode well with me, but maybe I needed to detach myself. Maybe I too needed to lie down and think about things. Or maybe I just needed a good bite of raspadura and feel the pureness of that sugarcane coursing through my body. I must admit, I hated the color of raspadura: a drab mix of olive green with a dreary hint of cardboard brown. But each time I
looked at that brick of raw sugar at her bedside, how the blood rushed to my stomach and my mouth instantly watered: how badly I wanted to ingest that coarse sweetness; how badly I longed for that exhilarating elixir.

“Don’t worry, chica,” Amalia said. “I’ll get up just fine, and Henry’s brother is picking me up shortly. It’s you I’m worried about. I feel horrible about stranding you and Rigo at the last minute like this. How will you get to Cojimar now?”

I would do it!
I’d bite into the raspadura even though no one had offered me any, even though the piece lying within reach was intended solely for her. My hand hovered over the plate and finally reached down until I touched it. How cool and smooth and creamy it felt. I nearly broke into a cold sweat.

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” I said distractedly, wrapping my hand around the raspadura. “What I’m worried about is whether this raft will float tomorrow. That’s what concerns me.”

“Clara!” Amalia shot back, her voice hardening and her eyes stiffening. “Don’t worry, chica! It’s nothing to fret about. Some people are building rafts at the last moment, right on the beach before they leave.”

“They are?” I asked.

“Yes, they are. Besides, you know Henry. You know he can fix anything. If he says the raft will hold, it will hold. Now, eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, Clara! But please excuse me for now, chica. I need to rest more and to think a while longer before I get up.”

I dropped the raspadura back on the plate and retracted my hand. At least I had touched it, felt it momentarily. But I wouldn’t be savoring any of its sweetness after all. I decided that I no longer wanted it, no longer needed it. I would much rather carry with me the lasting memory of its touch.

“Eight o’clock,” I said absent-mindedly.
“Si Dios quiere.”

God willing indeed! I embraced my friend again, but only by rote. This time I felt no need to infuse her with any
warmth or found it not the least bit difficult to release her. I kissed her good-bye and took a last look, wanting to remember her like this and remember this moment. I had not yet turned to leave when, once again, I heard a scuffle brewing outside the doorway, some new sniping. A flurry of voices coalesced into an indistinguishable blur of sound, except for one voice: that of Amalia’s father, which rose above the rest. There was no subduing the man or the force behind his voice. I remained motionless at the bedside, unable to move as I took in this latest round of fighting.

“Let me in!” he insisted. “I’m going in there right now!”

“No!” Amalia’s mother shouted, trying desperately to hold him back. “No! You need to calm down and stay out of this. You need to let the Virgin do her work. It’s the Feast of the Assumption tomorrow, and my prayers will be answered. The Virgin will not allow our daughter to leave, you’ll see!”

I remained fixed in my own motionless state, afraid to turn around and look. Her parents’ beleaguered voices swirled behind me, and it even sounded as if one of the aunts from Cienfuegos had intervened, jumping in to keep the two from strangling each other. I’d had enough. I wanted to get out of there. Maybe they wouldn’t notice me slip by. But just as I turned to go, a parade of hard and angry faces came barreling into the room with Amalia’s father leading the way.

“Tell me one thing, Clara, just one thing! That you’ve come to talk my daughter out of this. That’s all I want to know!”

Amalia’s father may have been a short man, but he was physically intimidating: bulky and sturdy, with a deep and booming voice. He had thick black brows and dark prickly stubble. His eyes took on a possessed quality when pushed to the edge. Even as I stood face to face with him I towered over the man, but I couldn’t answer him. I was too terrified. I could only marvel at Amalia’s room and how I had never seen it so immaculate, so neat and tidy. I thought of the raspadura too, but only how it now disgusted me. How it represented everything I wanted to rid myself of. As my pulse raced and my breath quickened, my thoughts were
being hijacked. The speedboat of this man’s insistence kept pummeling the ferry of my silence, but he knew my answer only too well. He could divine it in my eyes.

“No, Clara! No, chica!” he intoned. “Don’t tell me you’re going through with this foolishness too! Don’t tell me that!”

I wanted to counter with an appropriate response, but needed the raspadura to aid me, to infuse me with the power to stand up to him. One bite of that magical morsel and I knew I could fight back fiercely. I could pummel the vessel of his obstinacy until it split wide open. But my tongue felt tightly trapped and refused to budge.

“What about Rigo!” he persisted. “Surely Rigo won’t be a party to this, not with how sensible and smart he is. Surely Rigo knows nothing about this!”

I needed to flee. I needed to escape this man’s presence. As he sprayed me with the hose of his invective and tried to hasten the drowning of my hope, I needed to take immediate leave of him. And I refused to answer him but my silence said enough. All at once, as if in prayer, he clasped his hands and rocked them back and forth. But this was no gesture that presaged prayer; rather, a prelude to the diatribe he was about to unleash.

“That worthless
artist
!” he assailed Henry, uttering the word “artist” with particular derision. “How I wish I had him in front of me! I swear to God I would choke the life out of him with my bare hands. I would beat him raw with
caña
, that’s what I’d do! Always chasing some half-assed dream, always taking advantage!”

A bull. Amalia’s father was a human bull. Inside that immaculate room, with his thick neck and bulging eyes and nostrils that flared, he looked exactly like a beast. He resembled a mad bull as he snorted through his nose and his mouth began to froth. He pointed his head down as if to kick and charge and gorge his horns straight into some invisible target.

Amalia’s mother did her best to calm him down. She even tried forcing raspadura down his throat. It was well known
that bulls loved the taste of sweetness. But as he scraped his hooves against the floor and kicked and swung his head wildly about, the plate of raspadura by the bedside went crashing to the ground. The array of frightened faces all gasped in horror, mortified at the sight of their sacred elixir being desecrated in so undignified a way. But Amalia’s father kept charging at some unseen enemy, some invisible red flag that kept taunting him, fighting some inner demon that had taken complete possesson of him. His wife did her best to hold him back, but there was no restraining this beast. He was in a savage rage and could not be subdued. Not as he charged toward his daughter’s bed. Not as he knelt at her side and tears formed in his eyes. And not as he sobbed openly and uncontrollably and tried to waken her up. These were the moments he least resembled Amalia physically, when his complexion burned red and white and hers stayed a cool and sultry cinnamon. Despite all this fire and frenzy, Amalia remained fixed on her back unfazed, eyes to the ceiling and hands folded over her breast.