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

  “Which Heavenly Father?”

  “The Creator, Clara! You know, the one who created you, along with everything else in the universe.”

  His words dispersed in an echo, leaving me to peer at this being again, but suspiciously this time. I would always find it difficult to describe him, even now, this translucent, transparent, and incandescent presence. Even from those initial moments of its apparition, I thought it the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, natural or not. Yet there was something unnatural about it I had glaringly overlooked: a tremendous mass rising behind it, two white flames that emanated from its body that were tinged in bronze along the edges. There was no mistaking what they were, these radiant formations that glowed with a serene energy, these elegantly shaped masses as huge and magnificent as they were majestic.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “What are you, and what are you doing inside my house?”

  “My name is Gabriel,” he replied. “And I’m a messenger, a messenger from God.”

  How I wanted to laugh at this. Even for a hallucination, it was too much! But if I didn’t know how to ease back into consciousness, I decided to play along.

  “Gabriel! Of course! Don’t tell me, the Angel Gabriel, right?”

  “That’s right, Clara. That’s precisely who I am.”

  I certainly wanted to laugh now, but I was too scared. This encounter had just taken a decidedly frightening turn, and I no longer felt at ease in its presence, no matter how soothing the light or how lustrous the luminescence. I should have thought his words were all the proof I needed that the events of the last week were indeed miraculous. But I also knew they signaled trouble. Unannounced visits often heralded unwelcome news, and this no longer seemed just a dream, but a bad dream—one from which I wished to wake up.

  “Funny,” I began, rather brashly and flippantly. “You don’t look like an angel. Don’t angels all have blond hair and blue eyes?”

  “Oh, you mean like your friend here,” he replied flippantly himself, pointing to the prayer card on the dresser. “You mean Michael, our golden-haired boy wonder who can do no wrong. No, we all come in different shades and sizes, Clara—except for those little cherubs you see in pictures all over the place. I don’t know who came up with that concept, but there no angels in Heaven that look like that.”

  “No?” I asked.

  “No, Clara. And don’t be so easily impressed by looks either. Michael may have the blond hair and blue eyes, but he doesn’t have these. Just look at these, Clara. I bet you’ve never seen a pair of wings like this, have you? I’ve got the best wings in the whole universe—that’s why I’m the messenger.”

  That he did. Those were the two masses I felt reluctant to acknowledge, too frightened to name—wings, beautiful bronze-tinged wings bathed in a white luminescence and larger than the expanse of his whole body. I could only imagine their magnificence as they spread in full flight.

  “I just added the bronze highlights,” he said. “It’s only taken me since the dawn of time, but the Creator finally allowed it.”

  This was not happening. This was definitely a dream, and soon I would wake up. Soon I would find Rigo sleeping at my side and Mamá and my sisters asleep in their own rooms. Soon all this light that drenched my eyes would vanish, and I’d be back in the dark.

  “Look,” I said, trying to snap myself out of this irreverent reverie. “I know what’s going on here. You’re not an angel. You’re an agent—an agent of the state. You’ve come to stop my husband and me. Someone has sent you to arrest us, and I know who.”

  “No, Clara. You’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not mistaken. I know who’s behind it: Mihrta, my motherin-law. Well, it’s not happening. We are free to leave and everybody knows it. The whole world is watching this miracle and you can’t do anything about it, not even your ‘father.’ And you know which father I mean, don’t you? The one there’s nothing heavenly about, the one who created this mess we’re all in.”

  The messenger gazed down at me with that blazing bronzed visage of his, and as he did so, more shockwaves swelled up again and lightly washed over me.

  “¡Dios mío!” he said, shaking his head and flaring his fiery white eyes. “You’re right, Clara. There is a miracle taking place right now, a far greater one than you can imagine, one in which you will even play a big part. But it has nothing to do with taking this trip tomorrow. In fact, you must not take this trip tomorrow, Clara!”

  I was right! There it was! The trouble I had feared! The unwanted news I had dreaded. And I knew who was behind it: Mihrta. She had commissioned this creature to intimidate and harass me. That was why Rigo wasn’t home yet. He had already been detained and now it was my turn. Had this concept come to Mihrta during electroshock therapy? Had she concocted the idea for all this fire and flame while her brain was being fried? Maybe this was the mongrel from the Malecón in some elaborate disguise. They looked to be about the same size, and even had that same bronzed complexion.

  “What do you mean I must not take this trip tomorrow? Of course I’m taking this trip tomorrow, and nothing is stopping me—nothing!”

  “Clara,” he began, the hint of exasperation evident in his voice. “Weren’t your words to Amalia earlier tonight, ‘Si Dios quiere’? If that’s what God wants. Weren’t those your exact words to your friend?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well Clara, Dios no quiere.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked angrily. “How do you know what my best friend and I discussed earlier?”

  All at once the messenger’s demeanor changed drastically, and this Angel Gabriel, as he claimed to be, this translucent, transparent, and incandescent presence bellowed with such a booming voice that it sent even more shockwaves pushing hard against my body again.

  “Hail Clara, thou are highly favored, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women.”

  “Stop!” I cried out. “Stop this at once!”

  “Fear not, Clara, for thou hast found favor with God. And behold, thou shall conceive in thy womb and bring forth a daughter. She shall be great and shall be called the daughter of the Highest, and the Lord God shall give unto her the throne of her father David. And she shall reign over the house of Jacob forever, and her kingdom there shall have no end.”

  “Stop!” I cried out again. “What do you mean a daughter? I’m not having a daughter. I can’t even bear children.”

  “You can now,” replied the messenger. “For remember, with God nothing is impossible.”

  “Out!” I ordered the messenger again. “I want you out right now, or I’m going to scream.”

  The presence looked up to the ceiling and flared his eyes.

  “¡Hay mija!” he said. “You are nothing like Mary was. No wonder the Creator didn’t brief me. Still, I can see why He’s chosen you. You’re feisty, aren’t you? Quite rebellious. Yes, that Group Insurrection suits you quite perfectly. Look, Clara, you will not scream, and you must believe me. A great thing is about to happen—a miracle. You have been chosen to be the mother of God’s next child, and this time it’s going to be a girl. You will have a daughter and will name her Luz. You must name her Luz because, well, that’s what the Creator wants. I think she’s supposed to be the new light of the world, but don’t quote me on that.”

  “Really?” I muttered to myself, prodding and prompting and pressing myself to get up, wondering why, despite all my efforts, this dream wouldn’t end. Wondering why, as I looked around the room, I could see nothing beyond this dazzling, blinding light.

  “That’s original!” I said. “Luz of all names! Luz!”

  “Well, let’s just say your species isn’t the brightest in the universe, Clara; humans needs as much of a hint as they can get.”

  “Wake up,” I ordered myself, clasping my arms in a new round of restlessness. I even tried pinching myself. “It’s time to put an end to this—wake up, Clara!”

  “You are not asleep, Clara!” the messenger insisted. “
And this is not a dream. Neither is it a hallucination or even a vision. It’s a visitation, Clara. Do you understand the difference? I’m here to pay you a personal visit.”

  “Of course I understand!” I said. “And you’re right. It’s not a dream or any of those things. It’s delusion, delirium. I’m delirious from all the rabidness and frenzy of the past week, and I’ve finally cracked.”

  “It’s not delirium, Clara, and no, you haven’t cracked. Look, I can prove to you that you’re not dreaming.”

  “All right,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, let’s just humor you and say you were sleeping.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you get up if you were to hear the phone ring?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Absolutely. I’m a very light sleeper.”

  “Well, Clara, get ready then. You’re about to be woken up.”

  And it happened just as he said. As much as I wanted to scoff at his prediction, the phone rang just then—and rang and rang. But I knew it was a trick. My motherin-law could produce great feats of deception, and she had conjured up a masterful magician with this messenger. Yet why was I not seeing myself springing up from bed? Why was I not groggy or creeping back into consciousness? I was still on my feet, alert as ever, and awash in all this dazzling luminescence.

  “Well, Clara. Aren’t you getting it?” posed the messenger. “Aren’t you?”

  The phone kept ringing and ringing from the living room while this Gabriel looked at me and I looked at him, our eyes never once wavering from each other. I tried disguising a round of trembling, but these tremors of disbelief could not be suppressed, would not be subverted.

  “Get it, chica! It’s your husband calling. Get the phone before he hangs up!”

  “It’s not my husband!” I snapped back defiantly. “This is all a trick, a practical joke, and once I answer the phone, I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

  “Suit yourself,” the messenger replied, shaking his head in exasperation.

  I turned my back and slowly ventured out. That flush of white light bathed my room still, but the rest of the house remained frightfully dark, especially the hallway. I couldn’t see my own hands in front of me, but those distant rings faithfully guided my way. By the time I reached the living room I could see everything with stunning alacrity, as if all power had been fully restored. I still had no clue as to anyone’s whereabouts, but maybe this would provide an answer.

  Our phone was an ancient relic, a rotary model that predated the Revolution and often acted up. But now its rings came in loudly and powerfully, as if shiny and brand new. I stood over that artifact hoping it would stop, but it rang and rang until it drowned my reluctance and I finally gave in.

  “Dígame,” I answered, my heart pounding so savagely I thought it might split open my chest.

  “Clara!” said Rigo’s voice on the other end. “It’s me, amor. I’m still here with the family.”

  At the sound of his voice, I nearly burst into tears. I wanted to cry and release all the churning anxiety.

  “What’s taking you so long, Rigo? Is everything all right, amor? ¿Todo bien?”

  “It’s Mamá, amor. She’s taking it just as we thought she would. She’s inconsolable.”

  “Well, don’t forget what you said to me, Rigo: no backing out.”

  “Don’t worry, amor. No backing out.”

  “Hurry back, amor! There’s been a change in plans I need to tell you about.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  I dared not tell him. We had all had enough excitement for the week. As much as I planned on no longer keeping things from my husband—even when I only did it for his own protection—I couldn’t tell him about our raft, La Maloja, having been dismembered. It wasn’t quite time to open up the doors of my life and have the contents of its rooms freely intermingle.

  “Nothing serious, Rigo, but you and I must go to Cojimar by ourselves in the morning. We have to meet Amalia and Henry there by eight o’clock. How will we get there, Rigo? How?”

  “It’s all right, amor. I’ll be home soon and we’ll resolve it then.”

  “Rigo!” I called out, my voice echoing, then pausing, then trying to revive itself in the quietude. “You’re sure everything’s all right, amor?”

  “I’m sure amor, todo bien. But Mamá is a complete mess. She’s having a nervous breakdown, and Papá is threatening to hook her up with the cord and lamp if she doesn’t calm down. I think it’s what she really wants.”

  “I’m going over there Rigo! I’m heading over right now!”

  “No!” he whispered furiously into the phone. “Sorry Clara, but you’re the last person she wants to see right now. Just stay home, and I’ll be there soon.” He paused before continuing. “I love you, amor. Don’t worry about anything.”

  “I love you too,” I said.

  I was about to hang up when his voice sought me out a final time.

  “Clara,” he whispered tenderly. “I’m so glad you convinced me, amor. You have no idea how thrilled I am.”

  “You are?” I said.

  “Yes, amor, truly I am. Tomorrow will be the start of a whole new life for us and I can’t wait. You were absolutely right, Clara. This really is a miracle and we’d be fools to pass it up! Absolute fools!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was too stunned, too touched by so comforting a confession.

  “I love you, amor. I love you with all my heart,” I said.

  The phone clicked, leaving the drone of the dial tone to hang endlessly in my ear. I stood in abeyance as everything fell dark again and I clung to the receiver. If I wanted to place it back in its cradle and cease that dreadful noise, I couldn’t lift my hand. I couldn’t move. And I knew why: I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to go back to my room and face the truth—that is, if I could call it that. I knew he would still be there: the messenger, that translucent, transparent, and incandescent presence.

  But it was time to face the music, so off I went. The hallway remained impenetrably dark, and I couldn’t see my own hands before me. I was certain it had finally happened: I had woken up. Even as I approached my room, I saw nothing inside it: no faint light, no hint of a shine, not even a dim glow. But the moment I stood in the doorway and looked in, there it was: that constellation of incandescence lighting up the pale rust walls. No, he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was very much there still, seemingly engrossed now in the contents of my room, leaning over the dark wooden dresser and examining the prayer cards delicately arranged there. He even had one in his possession, the one of Michael.

  “What a ham!” the messenger muttered to himself, shaking his head all the while. “Look at how he always has to pose in that fighting stance of his.”

  “What was that ?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied the messenger, not bothering to turn and face me. “Just don’t believe everything you read.”

  He placed the card back down and continued shaking his head distractedly.

  “Don’t believe what?” I asked.

  “Never mind Clara, never mind. Well, was I right or was I right? Was it your husband Rigo or was it not?”

  “Yes,” I said in mild embarrassment. “It was him. But I still don’t believe this is happening.”

  “And why not, may I ask?”

  “Because!” I said. “It can’t be! People don’t talk to angels. Angels don’t come down to earth, much less the Angel Gabriel.”

  “Of course they do, Clara. It happens all the time, and I should know, shouldn’t I?”

  “But it doesn’t,” I insisted. “It can’t.”

  “It can and it does, Clara. Aren’t you the one who’s been talking about miracles all week long? Rapt with joy that you’ve been living through one? Yes, as I recall, you have. But now that you’re actually faced with one, a real miracle, you don’t recognize it for what it is. Why is that, Clara? Can you explain that to me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said,
shaking my head and grabbing my temples and applying a deep pressure. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know, Clara. It’s very simple: you’re scared. And fear is filling you with doubt. The news that you’ll soon be the mother of God’s next child terrifies you. But it’s all right, Clara. It’s natural to be scared. You just have to believe and trust in the ways of the Lord.”

  “But this is a mistake!” I insisted. “For one thing, I can’t have children. Last year I came down with a horrible affliction and the doctors said I would never bear a child. My husband and I have been trying, just to prove them wrong, and nothing!”

  “Stop tormenting yourself, Clara,” the messenger said. “Who do you think has the last word in these matters? The doctors? Or the one who created the doctors?”

  “But I can’t be the mother of God’s next child,” I said. “You must obviously know that I’m not a…”

  I struggled with the next word. I tried to find a less awkward term in the presence of this messenger and all his white flame and pure light.

  “A virgin, Clara? Is that what you’re struggling to say?”

  “Yes! You obviously know I’ve had relations with a man.”

  “Of course we know you’ve had relations, Clara. Let’s just say that no longer matters.”

  “No longer matters? How can it not?” I posed. “All my life it’s been the Virgin Mary this and the Virgin Mary that and Mary Ever Virgin. So how can the mother of any child of God’s not be a virgin?”

  “Times have changed, Clara. What can I say? Besides, you are a virgin.”

  “I’m no virgin,” I countered. “Trust me!”

  “But you are, Clara! You are, and I’ll explain why. Is a virgin not someone pure in thought and spirit? Someone innocent and pure of heart? You are those things, Clara, and much more—all of which makes you a virgin. That’s one of the reasons why the Heavenly Father has chosen you.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised to hear the concept of virginity presented in such terms.

  “Yes, and by the way, you don’t really think Mary was a virgin forever, do you? I mean, that would not have been fair to Joseph or her, and if the Heavenly Father is anything, He’s fair.”