The Distant Marvels (6 page)

“A story,” Susana says, looking at me significantly. “María Sirena was a lectora. She tells wonderful stories.”

The women look at me expectantly. They sit, arrange their dresses, and wait. I start to say no, but Susana squeezes my hand. I hear the faint rumbling of someone's stomach. Mireya sniffs, and pushes her glasses back up her nose. A fly buzzes in front of my face, and I wave it away.

“We don't have all day,” croaks Dulce, and I know Susana wishes to grow as old as she is, older than one can imagine being, and I send up a quick to prayer to la virgen, San Judas, and Changó, for all of the women here.

“Bueno,” I begin, then pause. Where to pick up the thread of memories? Should I start at the beginning, telling the story of the mermaid, or the gold? I feel my father's ghost again, cold on my neck, pushing me forward; I think of heavy bibles; the corner of Mayito's framed photo pricks my thigh from within my pocket. Like a crab, I think, I'll move forward. Never back. I plumb my memories for the first stories I ever heard, the ones my mother told me of her own youth and mine.

“This story happened just after the second war for independence,” I say. “There is a man in the story named Agustín, who was a hero and a monster. And a woman, named Lulu, who loved Agustín sometimes, hated him other times, and loved herself more. To me, they were mamá and papá . . . ”

L
ulu only remembered the two men conversing in the distance, far from the dock where the ship had come to rest. I was in her arms, squirming in the heat, my small cheek sweaty against her damp breast. The men were arguing, and both of them had dark manes that gleamed in the bright Cuban sun. One was Agustín. The other, the Spanish captain of our ship, the Thalia, had a whistle dangling from his neck. Lulu looked at me for a moment, dipping her pinkie into my mouth to quiet me. It was then that she heard the shrill whistle, and looked up in time to see the Spanish captain backing away rapidly, his lips puckered around the metal thing, trilling and trilling like a panicked bird. At once, men in uniform surrounded Agustín. Lulu screamed with me in her arms as they hit her husband repeatedly. The whistleblower went on whistling, but beneath that sound was the sick thud of fists on flesh and bones.

The captain of the
Thalia
sidled up to my mother later, saying, “When it comes time to inscribe this one,” meaning me, “do yourself a favor and tell them she was born under a Spanish flag. Maybe name her María Cristina, in honor of the queen, eh?” he said, and jokingly nudged my mother.

“Her name is, indeed, María, Capitán,” my mother said, leaving out the Sirena part. Already, she was thinking of survival, even while Agustín was being beaten.

“Good girl,” the captain said. How much did he know about Agustín's role in the war against Spain? Lulu shook her head wearily, images of Agustín setting fire to the carriages of Spanish officers in Havana sweeping through her memory. She could see him still, torch aloft, his cheeks blazing. Did the Spaniards know that she and Agustín had met with Cuban rebels in America? That there were plans afoot to launch a third war for independence? Lulu watched the men as they dragged Agustín away, his body limp, his feet twitching, which she took as a sign of life.

“Viva España,” she whispered as she passed the captain, and he smiled again. I chose that moment to sneeze for the first time in my life, and then I began to cry.

The captain said, “God bless you.”

 

Later that night, the captain came to the small inn where we had been put. The place was near the prison where Agustín was being kept, and a few guests milled about. “How is the baby? Is she catching a cold?” the captain asked from behind the closed door.

Lulu jumped at the sound of his voice, and called out, “No, María is fine,” leaving out my full name again.

“May I enter?” the captain asked.

Lulu contemplated her answer. Could she refuse? Agustín was in the hands of the Spanish. The enemies of freedom, as she thought of them. The captain knocked once more. Lulu heard him clearing his throat before speaking: “Please, may I enter?”

Nervous, she thought. And she recognized at once that particular, tremulous quality in his voice. The captain was besotted. Lulu knew, because she'd always been a great beauty, and because boys had sought her out even when she was very small. Her mother had noticed this about her, too. She'd watched Lulu among her friends, how they gathered around her, laughing at even her smallest jokes, seeking her eyes as if Lulu could bless them with a glance. Her mother forbade Lulu from visiting the homes of school friends who had brothers, or whose fathers were too young. “A person never knows what's in the mind of a man,” Lulu's mother had warned, teaching her how to tell a man whose nature was simply fidgety from one who was falling in love.

Lulu cracked open the door, and the captain thrust his nose in quickly. It was a nice nose, Lulu thought. Long, but straight. His pores were small. He licked his lips a few times before speaking. “Are you well?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”

The truth was, Lulu did need a few things. She was weak from hunger, exhausted from lack of sleep; her breasts ached with too much milk and her ears rang from my cries. Furthermore, she was still bleeding, and had no little cloths with her. She'd torn her petticoat to shreds and tried to use that, but the material was too thin and scratchy. Lulu felt color rise in her cheeks. How could she ask this man, any man, for help in this regard?

The captain must have mistaken her sudden blush for coyness. Perhaps he imagined that he was well on his way to conquering the beautiful wife of the rebel. So, he treaded gently.

“Lady,” he said in a soft voice. “Ask anything of me.”

“Free Agustín,” Lulu said at once.

The captain pursed his lips. A muscle twitched near his left eye. “It's out of my hands. I imagine you will see him soon enough.”

A flood of warmth pooled between her thighs, reminding Lulu of her immediate need. “The inn owner,” she said. “Surely he has a wife who can help me.”

The captain raised an eyebrow, confused.

“The baby is only a few days old, capitán,” Lulu said slowly, her eyes cast down. She didn't dare look at the captain, but could feel his discomfort even through the small crack in the door. “A woman has certain . . . things she must attend to regarding her . . . ”

“Of course,” he said too quickly. “I'll send the innkeeper up to . . . ”

“No. I'll go to him, capitán.”

“Aldo,” he said. “My name is Aldo Alarcón.”

Lulu let the name sink in, otherwise she knew she'd forget it. All names became Agustín in her head. Agustín. Agustín. Like a skipping record on a phonograph she'd seen once.

“Aldo,” she whispered, and it sounded like a sigh, so that the captain smiled and relaxed a little.

“And you?” he asked. Still, his nose poked through the space in the door, which had widened only a little during their conversation.

“Illuminada,” she said. The name Lulu she would keep to herself.

“It is a perfect name. I can barely stand to look at you without shading my eyes.” Aldo chuckled at his own joke, then sighed. Lulu looked down at her feet. She began to bounce me in her arms, shushing me. I cried heartily. My face, which had been as pale as a star, grew red. “Shh,” Lulu said and I stopped to listen. The wetness below gathered close to her skin. And still, the intolerable captain would not leave.

“I must see the owner,” she said.

At last, snapped out of his reverie, Aldo Alarcón said, “Of course, after you,” and drew wide the door.

Lulu walked out holding me, taking small, cautious steps. How mortifying, she thought. Then she remembered Agustín being dragged away, and the stream of blood coming from his nose and dotting the earth. A shudder ran through Lulu, so she held me tightly as she walked. Later, she told me that I had given her strength all through my father's imprisonment. “You were like an anchor. Or the railing of a ship. Meant for steadying,” she'd said.

Aldo led her to the inn's modest lobby—an airy place, though the tiling on the floors and walls was dark and intricate. A man in a cream-colored coat and matching waistcoat and trousers manned the front desk. His clothes were wrinkled all over, and the man's thick neck bulged at the black tie, as if tiny hands were strangling him slowly. On the wall above the man's head was a landscape painting of the mogotes in the Viñales Valley, all steep, round-topped hills that suggested another world. The painting was lovingly framed and kept dust-free, unlike the rest of the lobby. The man eyed Lulu and Aldo Alarcón nervously.

“La señora requires the presence of your wife,” the captain said a bit too loudly. Lulu suppressed a sigh. Why did such men find the need to shout when giving commands?

The man, who happened to be the inn owner, stood up at attention. His lips worried over his teeth for a moment, then he stuttered, “I-I-I h-have no wife, capitán.”

Aldo Alarcón slammed an open palm against the table in a show of frustration. Lulu was sure it was just a show. He'd wanted to startle everyone, impose his authority, but the wood was so thick that the sound was muted, and laughable. Besides, Lulu was fairly certain the captain had hurt his hand.

“Perhaps you have a sister?” Lulu asked, interrupting. “I require the help of a generous woman. I have heard,” she said, calculating, “that the people of the Viñales Valley are the kindest in the world.”

The man brightened. “It's t-t-true,” he said, “Jesucristo should have b-b-been born in Viñales, not Bethlehem. Every home would have opened its d-doors! I'll fetch my niece at once.” He disappeared through a narrow door.

The captain drummed his fingers on the desk. They were red and cracked, like salted fish. He scowled at Lulu. “No wonder all the sailors on my ship were sad to see you go,” Aldo Alarcón said. “You were too kind to them.”

“Only as kind as human decency requires.” Lulu bit her tongue. She'd overstepped herself, saw Agustín again in her mind, bloody and limp, heard the captain's whistle, remembered where Aldo Alarcón's loyalties rested.

The captain had been leaning on the front desk. Now he stood away from it, drawing up to his full height. “Decency,” he said, “What does a rebel's woman know of that?” Then, he ran his pinkie finger down Lulu's cheek, let it linger on her chin for a moment, then patted my head. “Sweet baby.”

Lulu tried very hard not to huddle over me, but instead, she met Aldo Alarcón's eyes steadily. She could feel the cold wake of his finger on her cheek. This was not the kind of man who would kiss the inside of a wrist, or draw a woman in softly, a thick, protective hand on the small of her back, and nibble at an earlobe. Lulu knew because Agustín was not that kind of man, either.

The owner of the inn interrupted at just the right moment, halting what must have been Aldo Alarcón's dangerous thoughts in that instant—
Should this woman be free? What threats does she pose to Spanish Cuba?
 

As for Lulu, she'd been thinking—
How far can I get if I run?

“My niece, F-Fernanda,” the manager announced, dragging a skinny girl in a baggy blouse and pleated skirt. Like her uncle's clothes, hers had the look of many wearings. The pleats were sad, flattened things, and Lulu's fingers ached to fold them down.

The girl approached Lulu confidently. Despite her clothes, she cut a figure far different from the inn owner's. Her hands rested on her slim hips. She eyed first Lulu, then me, and said, “My Tío Julio says you need a woman to help you.”

Lulu nearly laughed. A woman. The girl before her was still a child, her chest flat. Did she even know what little cloths were for? “Fernanda,” Lulu began, then stopped. “Is there anyone older about?”

“When was the baby born?” Fernanda asked, all business.

Lulu paused. There was something authoritative in the girl's voice and in her eyes, which seemed to patrol the room every so often, stopping on Aldo Alarcón for only a second each time.

“Less than a week ago.”

“Do you have luggage? Any supplies at all?”

“Confiscated.”

Fernanda stole a quick glance at Aldo Alarcón again, then tapped a finger against her lips. Her nail was chewed to the quick. “You need soup for your strength,” she said after a moment. “And milk to drink. There's a bolt of linen in the back room. I can sew. Little cloths and diapers. They'll be ready by morning.”

“Thank you,” Lulu said.

“Your shirt, señora,” Fernanda whispered, and indicated with a sharp thrust of her chin.

Lulu looked down and saw that her button shirt was partly undone, and a half-moon of swollen breast was exposed, the skin stretched and glistening.

“Oh,” she said, shifting me in her arms to adjust herself.

“It was nothing,” Fernanda said before Lulu could thank her. Then the girl was off again, as quick as she'd come.

“I'd be l-lost with-without her,” the inn owner said, his eyes following his niece. He fiddled with his lapels for a minute, then turned to look at Lulu. Lulu felt a ping and snap in her chest. There was, she realized, goodness in him. Not saintly virtue, no. But a tenderness Lulu had not seen in a man in a long time. Fernanda had called him Tío Julio, and there it was, a nameplate on the desk that Lulu had not noticed before—Julio Reyes.

He must have caught her looking, because Julio turned the little brass plate for her to see before asking, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” without stuttering once.

T
he captain had returned Lulu's luggage to her only after the Spanish authorities had ransacked it. Fernanda had made several linen diapers for me, as well as a few gowns of muslin, replete with a satin ribbon that tied at my feet. So, both my mother and I were well dressed for what Aldo Alarcón called our “outings among decent people.”