Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Page 2

  It was dusk on this August 14. Some viewed dusk as that magical time of day when afternoon and night blended into each other with the softness of a lover’s embrace. But dusk was my least favorite part of day. I had never liked it, that period of partial darkness when neither daylight nor nighttime could compromise on which should prevail. Dusk was not to be trusted. I found it dissolute, indecisive. Was it light getting lost in the shuffle, or light secretly scheming and right in the thick of things? Was it a thief on the run or a thief waiting to strike? There was only one thing I liked about dusk. Not the softness of its colors, but the swiftness of its descent: those fatal moments when afternoon fused into darkness with the quickness of a receding tide, when it drained all the errors out of day and devoured its disasters. Still, dusk was no delight, just simply the deterioration and death of everything.

  Night was a salvation from dusk and how I wanted night to arrive. How I wanted morning here already. By morning I’d be gone. But Rigo and I continued fighting, and there was no dissolving Dusk’s dogged determination. This dusk of August 14 clutched and clung onto daylight for dear life. If darkness usually flushed it out with the ease of a passing rainstorm, this dusk would not be doused or dampened any. It kept floating atop the vestiges of daylight, refusing to blend in with the night.

  In much the same way, Rigo and I had wrangled for hours. For once we had the house to ourselves and could fight like a normal couple. But surely not for long. Mamá and my sisters were I-don’t-know-where, and might return any minute, and I was truly at the end of my rope. No more reasoning. No more imploring. No more screaming, and no more time to waste. I just wanted to know one thing from my husband and would ask him one final time.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, Rigo. Are you with me or not?”

  How I waited and waited for an answer. Dusk sat thickly in its particles of indecision, but so did my husband’s thoughts. Then, suddenly, as Rigo put his books down and turned to face me, I gazed at him and braced myself. Here it came, the all-too-expected answer, the same response of the last three days. Slowly he walked over to me, and still I can picture exactly what he looked like that dusk of August 14. I can tell you what he was wearing, exactly what I was wearing. But the only thing worth mentioning about our attire back then was its drabness.

  All clothes in Cuba were either drab or dreary or just plain dingy. Whether the pairs of pants were blue or brown or khaki, they exuded a drabness. Whether the shirts were olive or beige or tan, they lamented their own dinginess. And whether the skirts or blouses were the color of honey or lavender or the green of the sea, they languished in a dreary despair. Everything hung on our weary bodies flatly and lifelessly, while only our eyes contained the slightest hint of life. Rigo peered into mine deeply now before giving his response: those restless brown eyes of mine searching for a clue; my thin but forceful face squaring off with his resolve. He took his sweet time as he raised his hands to my face, smiling at me strangely as he slid his fingers down the sides of my hair, so long and silky brown then and hanging just below my shoulders.

  “Yes,” he uttered softly, barely audible in the din of this stubborn dusk. “Yes, amor de mi vida, I’m going with you.”

  I didn’t hear him. I could hear only the voice in my head wanting to drown him out. I pushed him away from me and stepped back toward the dresser in our room.

  “But chico!” I reacted excitedly. “I’ve told you a million times the way it works. Don’t you get it? We don’t have to make the full journey across the straits. We just have to reach international waters twelve miles out. That’s where the rescue boats will be, where the Americans will be waiting for us. Don’t you realize what this means? In just one short day or two, we can be in the United States—the United States, Rigo!”

  “Amor,” he tried to interject. “Listen to me—”

  But, alas, I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t hear. As of late I had fallen prey to several bad habits that I attributed to growing up in a Communist State: always disregarding my opposition and, even worse, always repeating myself needlessly. I had not always been this way, quite the opposite. But I noticed the vice had come fully into bloom with the advent of our Special Period, during which I found myself constantly repeating my thoughts and ideas. I hated it too, this indelible stamp of Communist rule, where repetition was the basis of all communication and indoctrination. And I seemed to have developed a bad case of it. I asked myself repeatedly if there was some way I could have avoided this disease. If it was anything I might have done or failed to do. But, no—that was not it. How could any of us have shielded ourselves from this curse? How could any of us eschew the tendency to repeat or restate familiar refrains when it was all our leaders ever did? When, quite simply, it was all that we knew.

  “No, Rigo! Don’t interrupt!” I shot back. “I already know what you’re going to say. You listen to me. You just want to blame Amalia. You think this is her fault, but don’t blame her. This was not her doing. She hasn’t brainwashed me. She hasn’t filled my head with any grandiose schemes. I’ve made up my own mind, Rigo. Amalia is leaving because Henry is leaving, and she wants to be with the love of her life. If you loved me as much as she loves Henry, you’d go too—so don’t blame her!”

  “I do love you amor, just listen to me.”

  But I only shook my head furiously and gestured at him. “No, Rigo. You listen to me! I’ve heard all your reasons. I know you don’t want to leave your family. I know you think you’re abandoning them. But we’re doing this because of family. The day will come when they want out of Cuba, and we’ll be the ones to pull them out, the ones to save them. Sure, we won’t know anybody, but we’ll have each other. We’ll make new friends and form a new family. That’s what friends do, Rigo. Friends become family when they have nobody else.”

  “I agree, amor. Didn’t you hear me? I said I was going.”

  I still didn’t hear him, not fully anyway. Not with the restlessness that held me in its grip. Not with the ferocity of my thoughts all riled up and revved up and ready for a showdown. I waited for him to fight back, to refute my reasons point by point. My husband was a great debater, great at reasoning and skilled at arguing, and I loved to wage mental battle with him. It was one of our favorite pastimes as a married couple: debating to the death. But something was not clicking. Something was clearly the matter. He just stood there insensate and inert, sullen and almost sinking right in my presence. His eyes were those of a wounded little boy, and the hurt in their expression was now a spear that sank into me, much as the echo of his words finally began to do—seeping and sinking deep into my skull.

  “You agree with what?” I continued, foaming in all my fury. “Agree with what Rigo?”

  “With going, amor. I said ‘yes’. You’ve convinced me, and I’m going.”

  I caught the words unmistakably this time, all of them. But I knew I must have heard wrong. This had to be a mistake, and I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t scream in my head because it made no sense. Not unless this was another miracle. And it had to be. It was happening too quickly, materializing out of nowhere, as all miracles do.

  “You’re what?” I asked again.

  “I said yes, amor—yes!”

  It was I who wanted to respond, but my words were being hijacked. I wanted to utter some appropriate reply, but my tongue felt tightly trapped even as the speedboat of Rigo’s words kept ramming into the ferry of my thoughts over and over again, pummeling the vessel of my obstinacy until it split wide open. What a fool I was. Even as he sprayed me with hope and tried to hasten the drowning of my doubt, I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t flee. Not when this was all a setup. I was sure of it. Rigo knew what he was doing. He was no innocent. He was feeding me false expectation just to shut me up. If he was serious about going and this was no accident, why had it taken him more than an hour before coming to his senses? Before radioing reason and watching my life’s goals nearly drown before his eyes? While my spirit screamed out in agony and foolish hope held up de
sperate dream to keep it from drowning. Murderer! ¡Asesino! That was all he’d become. As the helplessness of my soul struggled to stay afloat and fought to keep from saturating with stagnation, it filled me with such rage I wanted to scream. But I was too drained to scream. After all this silent wrangling, I formed my words softly and rather feebly.

  “You’re going? Is that what you really said?”

  “That’s what I said, amor. I’m going.”

  “But how, chico? For three days you’ve been saying that…you’ve been telling me that…why, you’ve even insisted that—”

  I struggled to complete my thoughts, but Rigo approached me and prevented me, raising a hand and placing it gently on my lips.

  “Listen, amor. You know me. I don’t believe in miracles or much less, but you’re right. Things are never going to change around here, and I have to accept it. I’m never going to make my dreams come true unless we leave. I’m going, amor. I’m going with you!”

  “You mean it, chico? You really mean it?”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’m going. We’re going.”

  But despite the tenderness in his eyes, doubt consumed me, and I couldn’t accept it, not even if this was the response I had long awaited.

  “But what’s changed?” I insisted. “For three days you’ve been fighting me and battling me and swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it. You’ve called it madness. Why have you now—”

  Rigo placed his hand on my lips again, before my tongue could finish hijacking the rest of my thoughts.

  “Amor,” he replied. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone? Why do you always have to push and push and push? I’m going, and that’s all that matters.”

  That was when it happened, when I saw the light gloriously start draining from the interior of our room, when I noticed the pallor of its walls, a smooth and pale rust, deepen and darken into a crimson corrosion. Finally! Dusk finally in descent. Dusk finally dissolving into the tide pools of afternoon’s death. An unmistakable darkness was now on the rise, but oh, I could see more clearly than ever.

  “You’re right, Rigo. I do push too much, don’t I? I’ll try to change, amor. Once I get to the United States, I promise I’ll change.”

  A boyish and playful smile lit up his face, a surge of excitement infused his eyes. “Listen amor. Just so you know, I’m only going on one condition. I’m not settling in Tampa or St. Petersburg. I’m not living in Miami or any of the Keys. I don’t want any part of Florida or all the cubaneo there. If you can agree to that, tomorrow morning I’ll be on that ridiculous contraption of Henry’s, which will be a miracle if it floats.”

  The sudden dose of levity caught me off guard, but his dig at Henry did not. Rigo didn’t like Henry, not even when they should have gotten along fine. One was an architect, the other an artist. Their professions were not identical, but certainly fraternal. The two should have shared much in common, but instead of mutual respect, they shared a mutual distaste.

  “Where, then?” I asked. “Where do you want to go?”

  “To California. I want to live in California.”

  “Los Angeles?”

  “No, not Los Angeles!” he said with scorn. “Remember amor, above all I’m an architect, and a city like Los Angeles has nothing to offer an architect. San Francisco—that’s where we’re going.”

  “San Francisco?”

  “Yes, San Francisco, an architect’s paradise. I don’t know if I ever told you, amor, but one entire semester of our studies was devoted to the architecture of San Francisco, and ever since then, I’ve been dying to go there. I’ve wanted to see and experience the city’s architecture with my own eyes, especially a building there called the TransAmerica Pyramid…”

  “The TransAmerica Pyramid? What is it?” I asked.

  “Oh, you should see it, amor. It’s the most ingenious building of the twentieth century. It was built in the shape of a pyramid, and it’s the city’s tallest building. It’s a shining example of man’s potential for achievement and something you’d never see here in Cuba.”

  “A pyramid, ey? How interesting.”

  “Oh, it’s more than interesting, amor. It’s magnificent, a true marvel of architecture and engineering. But that’s only one of the many marvels and gems of San Francisco. There’s another structure called the Ferry Building that’s also impressive.”

  “The Ferry Building?” I repeated in my Spanish accent, with an awkward roll of the r’s.

  “Yes, amor, the Ferry Building at Marketplace. You should see the clock tower there. It sits like a crown on top of the building. It was modeled after the Giralda bell tower in Sevilla.”

  “And?” I asked the beaming architect. “What about it?”

  “What about it!” Rigo said in a huff. “Why, it’s one of the most beautiful landmarks in the whole city. It was built so well that it survived the 1906 earthquake. It’s where the Pacific Ocean ends and Market Street begins. Think of it as their Malecón.”

  I was stunned to hear so a bold comparison. Could this Ferry Building or this Marketplace really be as special as the Malecón? Our city’s splendid and extraordinary esplanade? That golden necklace that curved around the bay and from which our hopes and dreams hung like invisible yet incandescent charms? I doubted it.

  “You’ve never told me any of this, Rigo. You’ve never mentioned San Francisco or the TransAmerica Pyramid or this Ferry Building at Market Street.”

  “I’ve never told you about the stadium called Candlestick Park either, how it’s located right on the water and how, for years, I’ve dreamed about seeing a baseball game there. I mean, why talk of things that have no chance of ever coming true?” he said. “Why even mention them?”

  “Candlestick Park, huh? What an unusual name.”

  “It’s a beautiful name, amor, and San Francisco is a beautiful city.”

  I kept ruminating, contemplating. “Market Street, eh? San Francisco? I just assumed we’d always end up in Miami.”

  “Never!” Rigo shot back. “Out of the question! San Francisco it has to be. I’ll find work in a firm that designs clock towers and bridges and schools and libraries and come up with the best designs the Americans have ever seen.”

  “What about hotels?” I asked. “What about the luxury hotels you’ve always wanted to design?”

  “Forget it!” he said flat-out. “I’m not interested in hotels of any kind anymore, luxury or otherwise.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

  “And I have a confession to make too,” he added.

  “Confession, Rigo?”

  “Well,” he hesitated. “If something had to be the catalyst of all this madness, this Maleconazo, I’m glad it was a rock through the Deauville, that’s for sure!”

  “Why is that?” I asked in surprise.

  “That hotel is a complete eyesore!” he said “Not only Art Deco dull, but it’s always looked as if somebody sheared it in half!”

  I didn’t respond. Personally, I liked the Deauville. But after what Rigo had been through the last couple of years, I certainly understood why he was averse to hotels and wanted nothing to do with them anymore. Maybe that would change in time, once we settled in the United States.

  “Well?” he asked. “Are we in agreement?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t know much about San Francisco, beyond the Golden Gate Bridge and all the gays. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the sound of it. It seemed that San Francisco was just as much a writer’s city as an architect’s.

  “Fine,” I said. “Agreed! San Francisco it will be. I don’t know how we’ll get there, and we definitely won’t know anyone there, but if you want to live in San Francisco, San Francisco it is.”

  Rigo threw his arms around my waist and lifted me up before kissing me. He held me in place for the longest time and peered at me with his infectious smile. I hadn’t seen him this happy in over a year and hadn’t felt happier myself. He put me back down.

  “Just
one question, amor. Why tomorrow? Why so soon?”

  “Why not tomorrow? Why wait and leave things to chance?”

  “It’s so soon, amor. How can we possibly get ready by tomorrow?”

  “What’s to get ready, Rigo? We’re going by raft, remember? There’s only room for four bodies, and that’s it.”

  Rigo shook his head at me. He smiled and cupped my face with his hands. “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you, amor?”

  I pulled him close to me and draped my arms around his neck. “Well, remember that miracles don’t last forever, Rigo. We have to act quickly, move fast. What if tomorrow is the last day of it? What if today was and we don’t know it yet?”

  The expression on Rigo’s face changed ever so slightly. His thoughts turned inward even though he looked straight at me. I wanted to know what worries had just invaded his thoughts, but I wouldn’t push.

  “You really think this is a miracle, amor? You really think so?”

  “I know so, Rigo, and so do you.”

  “And you’re sure it has to be tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow morning, amor, August 15, 1994. The day we’ll leave this all behind and never look back.”

  He kept peering into my eyes, but his thoughts turned ever inward and silent. Something was bothering him and the look that hung on his face said it all. Whether it was a look of acceptance, resignation, or reality setting in, I couldn’t tell. But I felt sorry for Rigo. At times he was a wounded and innocent little boy, and I must learn to go easy on him, listen compassionately. I kissed him on the mouth with all the feeling I could summon.

  “Let’s celebrate,” I said. “Let’s do it right now as long as we’ve got the house to ourselves. Let’s make love for the last time in this homeland of ours.”