Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Page 11

  But not for long. After tonight, after this momentous and miraculous night of August 14, all the deceit would finally come to an end. Only after tonight would all the doors to my life finally swing wide open and could the contents of its rooms be free to mix and intermingle. Much of it thanks to my bespectacled friend, I might add, for a mere three days ago, on August 11, Nelson called together a special meeting of the Group Insurrection. We all discussed the situation at length and came to a unanimous decision: moving forward I would serve the cause better outside of Cuba than in it, this new technology of the Internet proving to be a great tool in the sprouting and scattering of news and information.

  Then would I lay it all out for Rigo. Once we were gone, I would tell him about Insurrection and the group’s goal of setting Cuba free. Once we were safely inside America nothing would stop me from spreading a message of truth and liberation. It was already happening. The message was gaining strength with this frenzied flight across the water, this forced and feverish escape. As thousands upon thousands of restless Cubans spilled forth and cast off, scrambling out to sea with its crisscross of currents and its seductive but treacherous straits, finally could the world bear witness to the unmistakable mess we were in. But it was time that someone took a genuine interest in it all and tried a hand in sorting the mess out. It was time that someone got the message and finally did something about it.

  4

  messes

  august 14

  late night

  Everything all right, compañera? ¿Todo bien?”

  I found myself face-to-face with one of the mongrels in blue, one of the Revolution’s stern-faced guards in his black boots and belt.

  “Yes,” I replied calmly. “Todo bien, compañero. Why do you ask?”

  The air felt cool coming in off the sea. Breezes along the Malecón were usually soothing and refreshing, but the one tonight had a mordant sting. And the sky had turned particularly black, without the moon or a single star anywhere in sight. Yet even in this disarming darkness, I could make out the mongrel’s features quite distinctly, as if I were holding a candle right up to his face.

  He was tall with short black hair. And despite the lack of light, I felt his shadow fall upon me, his small gray eyes surging to hold my gaze. His lips were thin and pale. His face, in glistening bronze, bore a faint scarring of acne. The mongrel was strapped in his uniform and cap, and as he leaned against one of the miniature towers punctuating the seawall, I figured him to be in his midtwenties, Rigo’s age.

  “Out of concern, compañera, that’s why I ask. You’ve been standing here for over two hours now, and I was starting to worry, starting to wonder if maybe something was wrong.”

  The tide lay low tonight, the water so still beneath the seawall that a mass of rocks rose from the surface like misshapen pyramids. I fixed my eyes on the water and these towering rocks, on the current moving across the harbor in serene undulations. I knew what the mongrel was wondering. I knew what he was after, and it had nothing to do with concern. How thoroughly he disgusted me, the way all policemen did. As always, the inherent arrogance in the voice, the underlying vibe that those outside of uniform were beneath contempt, and the probing eyes that pierced with suspicion. This had to be the only country in the world where standing stationary was branded a crime, which meant we must all be criminals since that was all anyone ever did around here: stand and do nothing.

  “Two hours!” I declared. “No, compañero, that’s impossible.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he countered, a discomfiting smile accompanying his answer. “You were here when I arrived, and I’ve been on my shift for two hours now.”

  Precisely as I figured. Even while looking out to sea and minding my own business, I’d be targeted. Even in this arresting darkness, they saw insurrection all over my face. Had I really been at the Malecón for two whole hours ruminating over the events of the last several years? The mongrel was either lying or grossly mistaken. Or maybe he was sniffing for an opportunity. I looked around, and sure enough, bodies along the seawall had certainly thinned out; movement along the boulevard had definitely dwindled, and pedestrians along the promenade had all but dispersed. I honestly couldn’t conceive two whole hours passing by unnoticed, but just in case he was right, I decided to take my leave.

  “Buenas noches, compañero, and thank you for your concern.”

  I turned to go. There were times the Malecón was hardly a golden necklace on which to hang anything incandescent, even if it was all invisible. There were times it was a tarnished and heavy chain that tightened around one’s neck. This was one such time. This mongrel had just ruined my last visit here and the sacrosanct moments of saying goodbye to one’s homeland. If two whole hours had really lapsed unnoticed, Rigo must be worried sick and searching for me as we spoke. Not to mention Mamá and my sisters. I still had to break the news to them myself. A final bout of guilt assailed me and would not lessen its grip, and neither did this mongrel in blue have any intention of releasing me from his custody.

  “What a disaster, huh, compañera? Tell me, what do you think of this huge mess we’re in?”

  His smile disgusted me more than ever. Did he really think I’d fall for the obvious? How I wanted to ram the speedboat of my disgust into the ferry of his hubris. How I wanted to pummel the vessel of his conceit until it split wide open. Exactly what mess was he talking about? The mess created by the man in green? The mess of being sprayed by the hoses of tyranny so that those on board wished to hasten their own drowning.

  How much longer would it take? How many more decades before this Revolution radioed for help and stopped innocent citizens from disintegrating before its eyes? When would there be real concern for those who screamed in silent agony and covered their faces against the stench of our bearded leader in his green fatigues? Murderers. ¡Asesinos! The only mess I knew was that which Fidel Castro had made of Cuba for over thirty years now—that was the only mess! Every time I heard the clamor of his Communist clichés I needed to gasp for air. Every time I thought of helpless souls struggling to stay afloat in the dregs of this dictatorship it filled me with such rage I wanted to scream. But of course, I didn’t. Of course, I couldn’t. After all my silent wrangling I could barely utter a few paltry words.

  “What do I think of this mess?” I began with newfound verve. “I think it’s a miracle, that’s what I think—an absolute miracle!”

  This time I would not be deterred as I went to leave. Hopefully the mongrel got my message: Stop sniffing! I wasn’t interested! Even if I weren’t married, I still wouldn’t be interested. Not in the least. Not with a mongrel. Without knowing or caring if he had uttered anything in response, I turned and crossed the wide boulevard that ran alongside the seawall, Avenida Washington as it was officially known, and slid into the narrow crevices of the city.

  The streets had definitely thinned out, but I still encountered plenty of lost and lonely faces on the way home. I cared for only one thing: learning the truth, verifying whether I had really spent two hours at the Malecón. It couldn’t be past eleven already. The streets remained buried in that suffocating blackness of our nightly apagón, and I quickened my pace. By now I was desperate to reach the house and have Rigo at my side, eager to learn of his family’s reaction to our big news. How I longed to hear Mihrta’s supplications that rather than leave his homeland, I be the only thing he leave: his own wife. But I would have to wait. Even before reaching the front door I could tell that no one lurked inside. Not Rigo. Not Mamá. Not Angélica or Pilar. I stood on the street and looked toward the front windows. No signs of life stirred anywhere within.

  As I opened the door to the dark and empty house, my stomach churned miserably. This dull ache impeded all movement until I put all foolishness in check. What was the matter with me? I was leaving Cuba on a homemade raft tomorrow, on a raft called La Maloja no less! I was taking to the wide and open ocean and all its inherent dangers. In the face of so harrowing a scenario, how could a little d
arkness frighten me?

  Somehow I cast aside all hesitation and stepped into the living room, nearly diving for the coffee table. I reached for our main source of illumination during the long and dreaded blackouts: a tall and sturdy candle that bore the scars of many a lighting. I lit the candle and picked it up from the wooden table. It illuminated my path softly down our long and narrow hallway.

  I approached Mamá’s room and looked in for a moment, catching sight of my father’s tall bookcases and the texts that sat untouched these days. Shadows accompanied me as I pulsed anonymously toward my room. Anticipation swelled as I grew anxious to learn the truth. I finally walked in, but only to stare at the time in disbelief: ten-twenty! Not only was it past ten, it was ten-twenty! The mongrel had been right. It was true, and from my nightstand, the round-faced clock with its glowing hands taunted me in their candid incandescence.

  How defeated I now felt, how spent. I couldn’t take it anymore. I inched toward my dresser and placed the candle down on it, in front of a large mirror that hung on the wall in a dark wooden frame. I stopped for a moment until, in a wave of disgust, I gazed at my reflection. I stared at my pathetic face and the features that frightened me. What an absolute mess I was! My eyes looked back at me eerily and empty. My brown hair clung to my head in a sweep of lifeless strands. I felt dirty and grimy, and shadows shifted across my face to create a ghastly sight. Even my clothes stuck to my body in all their drabness, drenched in the dust and debris of day.

  What was going on? Why was it so late and nobody home yet? If a surge of panic jolted me to go in search of my family, I simply lacked the energy. I was that drained. The events of the past nine days had caught up with me, and I thought I would drop to the floor from exhaustion. A pressure bore down on my temples and I needed to lie down. Wherever they were, I trusted in everything to be fine. I could think only of my bed and how I needed to rest. I wanted to clear my thoughts, but wondered if Amalia had left yet for Cojimar.

  But I needed to do something first.

  Ever since the miracle of August 5, I had borrowed some prayer cards and votives from Mamá and arranged them reverently atop the dark-brown dresser in my room. There were six candles in all, ivory votives in orange-frosted crystal cups. I lit them one by one, and before lying down to rest, I blew out the larger candle from the living room. A trail of smoke snaked its way into the air in a twisting band of charcoal and ashen gray.

  What a soft and pleasing glow the votives emitted. They stood firmly at attention too, like miniature kind-faced guards. And how gently they illuminated the saints adorning my dresser: Saint Barbara and Saint Lazarus, Saint Jude and La Virgen del Cobre. I even had a prayer card for Michael the Archangel, his sword positioned upward in the air. I didn’t know what Rigo planned on taking with him in the morning, but these cards would accompany me as we pushed off from shore. I would clutch them tightly against my breast for protection along our journey.

  How surreal a scene: casting into the ocean as the faint whispers of the water coaxed us away. It all seemed impossible, as inconceivable as being surrounded by so much silence right now. I wasn’t used to it. In the past I would have cherished all this solitude, but I didn’t want to be alone right now. I wanted to be surrounded by tears and laughter, by desperate supplications. All this quietude only hastened my fatigue, and I finally lay down. I needed to clear my thoughts if just for a moment, and my mind wasted no time in racing to the sights and sounds that greet us in our dreams.

  To the water—that was where my thoughts fled. My strained and aching eyes hosted a rush of jumbled images, but the comfort of the water was where my spirit longed to go. The sights and sounds of the ocean had consumed me all week long, and now my dreams carried me there. Not to the cold untrusting water of night, but to the soft and sultry water of day. How I wanted that water to transport me, to thrust me into the tides of tomorrow and pull me along the currents of freedom. Yet it was not water I saw or felt, but air, a cool and tingly air. At first I was floating through air, then flying through air.

  “It’s because I’ll soon be free!” I reasoned. “I’ll know and taste freedom for the first time ever, and my spirit longs to soar upward.”

  This air lifted and embraced me, but as in most dreams, things that aren’t are and things that are aren’t, and my thoughts turned inside out and shifted in reverse. I was no longer flying through air, the air was flying toward me, that same cold air from earlier tonight, that mordant, piercing air so unusual for the middle of August. Instead of prompting me to clutch my arms though, it propelled me to bolt up in bed. The window! The window to my room must be open. That was how this pernicious air had insinuated itself into the house. But even as I jumped out of bed to close it, I knew I must be dreaming. I was planted firmly on my feet, but felt entrenched in some developing dream. What else explained the curious sight materializing before my eyes?

  Air had snuck into the house, but it was not invisible as air should be. It was black and charcoal and ashen gray. It spiraled and spun before me, while deep in its center, a whirl of white and silver and a coating of vanilla radiated forth. I felt vibrations emanating from it, mysterious shockwaves that pulsated and undulated as if the swirl of light were trying to shatter the veneer shielding it. This peculiar sight seemed very real, but I knew I must be dreaming. My reflection in the mirror signaled I was awake, but I knew this must be a dream. Who in their right mind had ever seen air? Air that spun and whirled and turned furiously about so that it appeared more like water than air. Air and water. How similar the two were. No wonder one came from the other. No wonder one changed into the other.

  I approached it cautiously. I needed to touch and feel this whirling plume of air. I reached my hand out, but it was not cold as I imagined. It was hot. This mass of energy throbbed with a heavy warmth while more shockwaves pulsated and bounced right off me. And this hot brewing air turned so dense I couldn’t breathe anymore. I thought I would suffocate. I started coughing and choking and headed for the door because, surely, a fire raged inside the house and I must extinguish it. I must douse it with water before the entire house burned down and I perished. I turned to run for the door when, just as quickly, I came to a halt at the sound of a voice.

  “Clara,” called the voice. “Stop!”

  I did exactly that. I no longer knew if I was dreaming or awake, but I stopped. I turned to face the mysterious voice and saw a bright glow. That whirl of white and silver and vanilla had pierced through the bands of charcoal and ashen gray, and in their place left a dazzling and arresting light. No wonder I had seen no stars or moon along the Malecón. They were all here, right inside my room in a constellation of blinding incandescence. The elements of air and water and light had coalesced into the rays of some wild and wondrous sun, all being fed by the flames of a white and whispering fire.

  “No!” I cried out. “I can’t stop! Can’t you see there’s a fire inside the house? Some raging white fire, and I’m in danger—we both are!”

  “No, Clara. There is no fire. It is only I, and I come to you with greetings.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. Greetings! Had I just heard correctly? What type of foolish talk was this right now?

  “What do you mean greetings?” I snapped. “Greetings from whom? Greetings from where?”

  “From above, Clara. Greetings from above.”

  Greetings from above? What did that mean at a time like this? At a time of fire and flame? At a time of clear and critical danger? I certainly had to be dreaming. I had to be. Even if I felt myself perfectly alert in the glow of this pulsating presence, I knew I must be dreaming. And even if time was coinciding with reality, for I caught sight of the alarm clock and saw it was exactly ten-thirty, saw that only a mere ten minutes had elapsed, I knew this must all be a dream.

  “From above!” I said. “What do you mean from above?”

  “From your Heavenly Father, Clara. From that above.”

  It was then I peered intently at this presence, at
this being that had materialized out of nowhere. It looked real, even human, but then it didn’t. It possessed a familiar face, but again it didn’t. Even its coloring kept changing, one shade one moment, another shade the next, a shifting blend of glistening bronze and shimmering white that almost blinded and burned. It seemed solid and impenetrable, but transparent too, bathed in some ethereal luminescence where, were I to thrust a hand at it, that hand would surely pierce through. A shimmer of white embraced it. A tingling silver surrounded it. Not only outwardly, but inwardly, as if some giant translucent candle lit it from its center and bathed it from within. It wasn’t overly tall, but the presence towered over me just the same, engulfing me. Could it be that right before me stood a—no, of course not. I couldn’t even finish my thought. Miracles were one thing, but this? This had to be my imagination. A hallucination. But a vision? Definitely not.

  “From my heavenly father? Oh, I get it. You mean Papi. Yes, I understand now. It’s because of the trip tomorrow. Papi knows that Rigo and I are leaving Cuba and wants to give us his blessing, wants to let us know that we’re making the right choice. Well, you tell Papi that…”

  I couldn’t finish my words. As my voice trailed off, my thoughts dissolved in a vapor of sadness. Despite this soothing light that saturated my room and the pale-rust walls, any thought of my father, no matter how fleeting, still struck me with melancholy and regret.

  “No, Clara. I don’t mean your earthly father. I mean your Heavenly Father—that father!”