Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Read online

  LUZ

  Burnt Copper Press

  San Francisco 2015

  LUZ

  a novel by

  Luís González

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911609

  Burnt Copper Press, San Francisco, California

  This book is a work of fiction and, although allusions are made to certain historical events, the characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously.

  Copyright © 2015 Luis Gonzalez

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 0966305825

  ISBN 13: 978-0966305821

  Published by Burnt Copper Press

  San Francisco, California, United States

  Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon company.

  North Charleston, SC

  Visit Luis Gonzalez on his website at: cubawriter.net

  Like him on Facebook.com/luzthenovel

  Follow him on Twitter: @luzthenovel

  acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the culture and the people of Cuba, an eternal source of pride and inspiration.

  acclaim for LUZ

  FOREWORD REVIEWS (4 of 5 STARS)

  A hefty, surprising, and absorbing exploration of faith, both in political and divine redemption. Written with verve and sensitivity, Gonzalez crafts a humorous Cuban tale full of unexpected twists and rich characterizations, and whose surprises reward the suspension of disbelief. While sections devoted to God’s conversations with his son in Heaven provide both levity and space for theological considerations, readers who enjoy the strangeness of this humorous and theological first installment will certainly look forward to future adventures.

  KIRKUS REVIEWS

  Gonzalez is a strong, sometimes idiosyncratic prose-stylist particularly adept at capturing the clash of idealism and futility that marks this period of Cuba’s history. Gonzalez’s considerable storytelling prowess is most fully realized in a chapter devoted to the backstories of Rigo and Clara’s father. Here, flashbacks allow the story to move along while capturing the heartbreak of intellectual yearning snuffed out by an oppressive bureaucratic regime.

  MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

  Luz is a highly charged saga of change and spirituality. The result is a striking, captivating, and dense read that unfolds like a flower and blossoms with a predestined heroine whose mother’s world collapses and rises again from the fires of destruction, like a phoenix. Readers who appreciate a fine blend of spiritual and social insight, all held together by the glue of a feisty young protagonist surviving a Third World country, will find Luz a gripping, evocative story.

  PALMETTO REVIEW

  Gonzalez tells his epic tale with notable depth and compassion, as well as an intimate and abiding knowledge of Castro’s Cuba, allowing the reader to feel Clara’s anguish at being forced to make a seemingly impossible sacrifice no matter which path she chooses. Gonzalez writes seamlessly, allowing the reader to get lost in the world he creates, paying off all his premises with satisfying results. Luz is a heart-wrenching but ultimately hopeful tale of sacrifice and discovery — one of those few moments when both story and storytelling are of equal grandeur.

  SAN FRANCISCO BOOK REVIEW (4 of 5 STARS)

  Gonzalez relies on a heavily stylized form of storytelling in order to blend the epic with the everyday. Gonzalez takes his time to let you into Clara’s mind as her life changes and priorities shift in an attempt to remind us that at the heart of every epic story, there lies the human heart. It is very rare to come across an author who attempts a story of this scale, but keeps the humanity of his characters firmly in place. A truly worthwhile read.

  PORTLAND BOOK REVIEW

  The novel is so strongly written, so well written, that one can easily focus on a story told from the perspective of an intelligent headstrong young woman whose life, like so many of our lives, takes a turn quite opposite of what she had intended and does so with miraculous results.

  PENN BOOK REVIEW

  Masterfully written fiction that simply cannot be overlooked. This is a fresh writer with a great voice. The only disappointment for readers, perhaps, will be the cliffhanger, and surprisingly wonderful ending. Gonzalez is aptly skilled in the art of “teasing” readers from the beginning in order to capture attention, and move the story into unforeseen territories. Intelligently written and very exciting. One of the best novels in the Latin American and Hispanic genre to date.

  for María

  contents

  miracles

  setbacks

  visitations

  messes

  CONCEPTIONS

  assumptions

  solace

  LUZ

  troubled times

  book i

  comings and goings

  so will I trust in the Lord,

  all the days of my life

  1

  miracles

  august 14, 1994

  dusk

  A miracle.

  That was the way most of us saw it. The only way I saw it. A miracle had struck unexpectedly, and we all had to move quickly, we all had to act fast. How this miracle materialized, nobody really understood. How it unfolded so swiftly, no one was really sure. But one thing was evident. One thing stood clear. God was finally answering our prayers. He was finally acknowledging our long years of suffering, along with our petitions to the Virgin.

  To be honest, I had never been religious. Not even spiritual. My mother was and from her I had witnessed much, especially on the days of the saints. Every year, on September 8, Mamá set up a shrine of flowers and candles to commemorate the Feastday of the Virgin and transformed our living room into a blessed chapel. La Virgen del Cobre, our beloved patron saint. Even during the era when it was absolute suicide for anyone to step foot inside a church, Mamá had always attended Mass. My mother was the type to die for her faith, a martyr if you will, and naturally she had tried instilling her beliefs in me. But I never fell prey to them, I was no believer. Myths and fairy tales—that’s how I regarded religion. I much more took after my father, where education and politics were my religion. Writing, my salvation.

  But no more. We’d been living in a Special Period the last four years in Cuba—el Periodo Especial, as the government called it—and I no longer believed in anything. There was nothing special about this period, nothing charming or endearing. What a misuse of words. What a travesty of terminology. And this from a master of language himself, the virtuoso of vocabulary and verbiage. Special Period indeed! Just one more marvel from our master manipulator, one more euphemism for the hell we knew as daily life. No future. No freedom. And certainly no food. But worst of all, thanks to our daily blackouts, no electricity or light inside our homes for up to twelve hours at a time. We all abhorred that the most: the long and endless hours without any power or interior light. But now everything had changed and even I recognized the incident for what it was: a miracle. I thanked God for His mercy. I thanked God for the opportunity. A pair of beneficent hands had sliced open the gates to this inferno—no, flung them open—and along with everyone else, I wanted out.

  Only one major risk involved, one daunting drawback: the risk to life. But no matter. They had already ripped away my dream and destroyed me from the inside out. Those who ruled the roost around here reveled in that. They stole your hopes and tied the soul down with despair. All my life I’d wanted to be a writer, but that was never going to be possible. Not on this island. To live in Cuba was to exist in defeat: daily defeats, nightly defeats, defeats large and small that perpetuated themselves endlessly. Defeats that corroded you from
within, and gnawed away at you from without. We were not simply awash in defeat, but drowning in it: in a deluge of dread and disappointment. To continue living here was to thrive in this defeat, and even at my young age, I felt dead inside.

  But now, all those battling that vicious cycle were hopeful again. All those fighting for a surge of life were fleeing. An exodus from this living hell had sprung forth and, as usual, a frenzied flight across the water, a forced and feverish escape. But this time, miraculously, those who controlled the gates were not stopping anybody, were not throwing anyone in jail. Not our leader in green fatigues. Not his ministers in their menacing fashion. Not even his anonymous sentinels or mangy mongrels in blue. That was how I referred to the police around here, “mongrels in blue”.

  What else could this moment be, but a miracle? Surely God had bound their hands. Surely God had blinded their eyes. He must even be placing words in their mouths. Why else had the man in green made the announcement of a few nights ago? Declaring to the world we were free to leave. Gladly threatening everyone to let us flee. He was imparting his blessing on us; that is, if anyone thought him capable of such a thing. We knew then it had to be a miracle. We understood then it must be the working of the Lord. More than anything I knew I must avail myself of this miracle, and I too must take my leave.

  It all began on August 5, the day God’s wrath fiercely became manifest. And not only before the eyes of our homeland, but before the eyes of the entire world. Our miracle of August 5 in the year of our Lord 1994. Right here in Centro Habana at the Hotel Deauville, just blocks from where I lived.

  Surely, something had preordained the events of that unforgettable day. Something or Someone or some Unseen Force out there. No doubt existed in anyone’s mind. We were at the height of this Special Period and tensions had been brewing on the island for weeks, ever since July 13, when thirty-two men, women, and children were killed at sea, murdered right off our coast. The man in green and his pack of mongrels called it an accident, an “unfortunate incident”. His legion of liars insisted they were only trying to stop a hijacked vessel and rescue the innocent passengers aboard.

  But why then did they ram their speedboat into the ferry over and over again, pummeling the vessel until it split wide open? Why then did they spray their hoses at those on board to hasten their drowning? And why, if they cared so much about the innocent, did they wait more than an hour before radioing for help, as entire families drowned before their eyes? As their brethren screamed in agony and adults held up children to keep them from drowning? Murderers! Terrorists! Every time I thought about those helpless souls struggling to stay afloat and suffocating with seawater, it filled me with such rage I wanted to scream.

  Ever since July 13, you could feel the tension roiling on the streets. Havana had turned into a hotbed of hostility, and my brothers and sisters were growing bolder, openly criticizing the police, whereas, never had they dared to challenge them before—that was something purely unthinkable. So plans of fleeing continued unabated even if it meant another hijacking, even if the attempt at escape ended in tragedy. And what a year of escapes it had been. In 1994 alone my brothers and sisters had fled in record numbers. The desperation was that high, the misery that great. Never had the everyday, ordinary Cuban felt so starved, so cursed. A tempest had been gathering in strength, and ever since the murders of July 13, we all felt possessed by some unstoppable force. That tempest finally reached land when, in the final days of July, a rumor started.

  Like many rumors, there were always some parts that were true and some parts that weren’t. A story had circulated that America, or the mighty Eagle to the North as some regarded it, had dispatched a giant ferry to pick up as many Cubans as could fit. We all believed this fairy tale, fantastic as the claim sounded; although to many it didn’t seem that outlandish. Not with the exodus of Mariel still alive in our memory.

  Before long, a giant crowd coalesced along the Malecón waiting and praying for the ferry to come. By some accounts as many as five thousand of my brothers and sisters had converged along the seawall waiting for its arrival. It never showed up. It was a tale born of heightened hope and desperation, a ferry tale. But days after that crushing disappointment, the multitudes along the Malecón had not fully dispersed. Remnants of the faithful kept lingering and loitering and lowly simmering until, finally, on August 5, all hell broke loose: El Maleconazo, as it would come to be known.

  I heard it from my house, only blocks from the flashpoint. I wanted to run toward the ruckus and join in, but Rigo forbade it. He wouldn’t let me leave the house. But according to those fortunate enough to witness the incident, privileged enough to take part in history, a boy of no more than sixteen had deliberately tried entering the Hotel Deauville—a grave transgression for any Cuban: any ordinary, everyday Cuban.

  From birth on we learned the cardinal rule around here: the only ones blessed enough to enter the gates of any hotel were tourists and foreigners, or members of the elite. We understood it was meant for our own good, meant to shield our eyes from the riches contained within: shoes meant not for our feet, food intended for bellies other than ours. Apparently this boy of sixteen had never learned this cardinal rule or didn’t care for its adherence. No one knew exactly what ran through his mind, but one thing was known. As he argued with the mongrel who blocked his path, those standing nearby joined in the boy’s defense and argued right alongside him.

  “Why can’t he go in?” they demanded to know. “Why can’t he?”

  What happened next unraveled in a blur. A sharp scuffle. A spontaneous spark. Someone pushed someone else and instantaneously a fight erupted, a violent one. Those standing nearby intervened and attempted to keep the policeman from arresting the boy. But it all swelled too swiftly, this fast-moving tide. It all surged too fast, this rapidly moving wave, bringing with it a surge of sights and sounds unfamiliar in our city. The most glorious sound of all came in the form of shattering glass. Who-knows-what or who-knows-who had smashed the large front windows of the Deauville and the most splendid sight to behold came in a shower of splintering glass. Not anyone or anything could stop the hail of crystal that came crashing to the ground.

  El Maleconazo. They called it an act of terror, those who called the shots around here. But it was no act of terror. That was just political prattle, petty propaganda. El Maleconazo was an act of valor, an act of courage. It was a hotel defaced—that most hated symbol of class distinction here—especially a landmark hotel along the Malecón. But out of defacement came determination and an uprising had sprung to life. All of these hijackings and escapes and acts of defiance had ignited a resistance and, for the first time in thirty-five years, rioting and protests surged through our streets. For the first time in their sedentary lives my brothers and sisters felt restive and ablaze, and I, as a young insurrectionist working to subvert this regime, could not have been more thrilled.

  That was how I saw myself: not as a dissident, not as a pacifist, but an insurrectionist. Dissident was too nice a word. Pacifist, pathetic. The word insurrectionist cut to the heart of our plight with a raw and ruthless ring. As rocks and bottles were flung at the Deauville, an insurrection it was. As chants of freedom were hurled in the air, a real revolution this time, an actual revolt. No more apathy. None of the staleness or stagnation that threatened to smother us all. The myth of that giant ferry quickly faded, but a resolve to flee and live again had newly spawned.

  But not everyone viewed the events of August 5 as a miracle. Some, like my husband Rigo, regarded it as lunacy. Others, like Mamá and my sisters, viewed it as sheer stupidity. I was one of three daughters in my family: the middle sister, the one right in the thick of things or always getting lost in the shuffle. I had an older sister, Pilar, and a younger sister, Angélica. My mother, Inez, was still very much around, but as for my father, Alejo, well, it was usually too painful for me to think about him.

  Determined as I was to launch my dreams then, I expected a few hurdles along the way, nam
ely from the women in my life. But I could handle them. Rigo was a different matter. If I had always thought I possessed an unfailing partner in my spouse, never did I expect the only man I had ever loved to prove my biggest obstacle. But that’s exactly what he’d become these last three days: an obstacle, a stumbling block I could not overstep.

  They were leaving tomorrow from Cojimar, the nearby fishing village made famous by Hemingway. It was from Cojimar that nearly all my brothers and sisters were catapulting to sea. And it was also from there that my best friend, Amalia, and her boyfriend, Henry, were likewise taking off. Not the day after tomorrow or the day after that, but tomorrow: on August 15.

  A talented painter and sculptor, Henry had built the raft all by himself. He could do anything with his hands and had constructed our sturdy vessel in one short day, fashioning it solely from sugarcane stalks and maloja. While the vast majority of rafts were strung together from inner tubes and other floatable plastics, Henry refused to utilize such distasteful material. He despised plastic so much that he even hated admitting his degree was in Artes Plásticas. Henry assured us that the raft did not need anything so unnatural as plastic. According to him, maloja, literally, the bad leaf—and which happened to be the green outer sheath of the sugarcane stalk—possessed a natural buoyancy far superior and more durable than that of plastic.

  “There’s much the world has yet to learn about maloja,” he noted rather abstractedly. “And one day it will.”

  I should have known. For some reason, maloja always seemed to pop up in my life—always. Personally, I loved its delicately exquisite flower that resembled a whitish wispy flame. And it may have been the nurturing and protective leaf of sugarcane, but most considered it a useless weed, which is why maloja was burned so savagely in the fields during harvest time, this “bad leaf” as it was known. But Henry christened our vessel “La Maloja” anyway. Not the most auspicious of names, but fitting under the circumstances. I hadn’t seen the raft yet and didn’t want to. Not beforehand. I’ll admit that I was scared. But I also trusted in his abilities. If La Maloja was good enough for Amalia, it was good enough for me. Henry wanted out of Cuba for two reasons: his art and his ideas, which he considered one and the same. Art and Communism were two natural enemies, two siblings who not merely rivaled each other, but reviled each other. As for Amalia, she didn’t care about anything but Henry. If her boyfriend was leaving, so was she.