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

  “Right now?” he asked, his eyes darkening with ruggedness and lust.

  “Right now,” I replied.

  He didn’t decline my offer, of course. We made glorious and wondrous love, the last vestiges of dusk giving way to a nascent night, and light fusing into darkness with the feel and finesse of a fluctuating flame. I never felt closer to Rigo or more passionate about him than during our union that particular dusk. Partial darkness glowed with the frenzy of desire and distant points of light were all that I saw. When we finished I wanted him to love me over and over again. I wanted this dusk of desire to last forever and for Rigo to hold me and never let go. We lay in bed and I wanted desperately to stayed glued to him, but he had more pressing matters on his mind.

  “I need to tell my parents,” he said. “I need to break the news to Mamá.”

  “Right now? You have to do that right now?”

  “Coño mija, I have to tell them sometime, don’t I? We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  He was right, and I knew it. As much as I wanted to hold on and never let go, Rigo was a practical man. He had to notify his parents and get it over with. I didn’t want to think about my motherin-law or how she would pin this on me.

  “All right,” I said. “I understand, amor. Go ahead.”

  Rigo slipped out of my arms and out of bed, and while I contentedly stayed put, he quickly threw his clothes on in all their splendid drabness. But I couldn’t move. I continued on my side even though he was right: we had a lot to do, a lot to finalize. A restless and nervous energy stirred, but I sealed it off, closing my eyes and managing to drift off when his voice rudely awakened me. I found him sitting on the edge of the bed gently stroking my hair.

  “I just want to tell you one more thing, amor, and remember this while I’m gone.”

  “What?”

  “You know me, amor. You know that when I make up my mind about something, it’s do or die, that I don’t go back on things.”

  “I know, Rigo. Why are you saying this?”

  “Because, amor, as of this moment I’m committed—we’re committed. We go through with this no matter what. No backing out.”

  “Me back out? I won’t back out, amor. I’m the one who just convinced you. The one who’s been hounding you for three days.”

  That peevish and playful smile returned to his face. “All right, amor, all right. I just want you to respect how I feel.”

  “I do, Rigo. You be the one to remember that when your mother is throwing a fit.”

  He’d had enough of me. Rigo bent over and kissed me goodbye, but I wouldn’t let go of him. He had to peel me off of him. After some wrangling he finally freed himself and wasted no time in grabbing his wallet and watch and departing from the pale rust walls of our room.

  “Be strong!” I called out after him. “Remember your own words when your mother tries talking you out of this. You know she’s going to put up a fight, and a fierce one.”

  He responded not, but it didn’t matter. I knew what the response would have been. Rigo’s mother could never do any wrong. He stayed his course in silence and made his way down the narrow hall, reaching the front door and opening it softly. Rigo’s family lived close by, and I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I had longed for night’s arrival, but our hated apagón—our nightly blackout—would soon go into effect, and I dreaded being alone in the house during the hours of blackness.

  He was gone. From my bed I heard the front door close, but inside I felt another door open. We were leaving Cuba. We were leaving behind this Periodo Especial, and I couldn’t believe it! Rigo and I had just made the most important decision ever as man and wife, and I knew it would lead to the richness and promise I had so envisioned. Finally could we emerge from the travesty of this tyranny. Finally could we depart from this twilight of terror. Finally could we spit upon this Special Period as it deserved to be spat upon.

  I should have felt ecstatic, triumphant. But rather than triumph, I only felt deflated, lost in the midst of some barren emptiness. I sat up in bed, but didn’t know what to do with myself. It seemed there were a million things to attend to, but nothing at all.

  True, we were leaving on a trip tomorrow, but there was nothing to pack up, nothing to take with us. Maybe our identification papers, our birth certificates surely. I was sure Rigo wanted to take some of his schematics, but I would let him worry about that. We were off to start a new life. Maybe some photographs of our old life, faded pictures of those we loved and were leaving behind. Alone in the house and with the silence of night encroaching, all I could do was wait, just sit and wait, or pace and wait, but definitely wait until everyone returned.

  Amalia! I must tell her we had the green light, we were going! I must tell her not to give away our spots on the Maloja, for we were joining her and Henry first thing in the morning. I really didn’t feel like getting dressed and venturing out, exhausted as I was from all the lovemaking, but I would pay my friend a visit and tell her I had triumphed, that a miracle of its own had just occurred.

  I threw back the sheets. Despite the fatigue, I slipped into my own drab clothing, all the while thinking of how, very soon, I too would be breaking the news to my mother and sisters and pondered what their reaction might be. I’d given them fair warning. Since August 11 I had told them I’d go through with this and insisted nothing would stop me. Still, I contemplated the actuality of it now, and it saddened me greatly. How much like my father I had turned out to be: driven by wanderlust and blind ambition at the cost of home and family. With so much to do and think and feel, I felt paralyzed and did nothing at all. So I would wait. I would simply sit and wait.

  Clara—that’s how I was known. I had never liked my name. So old-fashioned, so Christian, and all Mamá’s doing by the way. It had always reminded me of a Saint’s name, and I was no saint. But I was nineteen years old then, Rigo twenty-six. The following day I would head for a new land, a new life, bearing with me all the dreams and hopes, all the fears and apprehensions that such a departure entailed. Exhilaration filled me, but so did dread. Whatever lay in store for us, the decision had just been etched. Life had drawn its design and engraved it into our destiny. Night was swiftly approaching, but darkness would soon be a specter of the past. Tomorrow morning a light would carry me forward. Tomorrow morning I would start to live and no longer feel dead inside. Not anyone or anything could stop us or set us back. Tomorrow morning I would leave this homeland of mine forever, or so I thought.

  2

  setbacks

  august 14

  mid evening

  I did it, chica! It’s all set! I convinced Rigo and we’ll be joining you and Henry first thing in the morning! What do you think about that?”

  I had gone to Amalia’s to deliver the good news. After more pacing and restlessness I desperately wanted to visit my friend and firm up tomorrow’s plans. Good thing I did, as Amalia had an announcement of her own. She too lived a few blocks away and grown up here in Centro Habana, right in the middle of the city where anything worth happening happened. I was thrilled when I showed up at her house. So excited that I barely took note of something curious and odd.

  At first I thought my friend was merely resting, that she too must be drained and exhausted. When I found her lying in bed, face up and perfectly still, I thought she had turned in for the night, which meant we’d be getting an early start in the morning. But soon I didn’t know what to think. Not as she lay wide awake, her eyes distant and glazed and fixed on the ceiling as if she were under some bizarre spell. And I knew not what to make of her large family coursing through the house and going about its business, while my friend remained alone in her room.

  “That’s wonderful, chica, that’s just great,” she replied, never turning to face me yet managing to produce a smile.

  Only after she spoke did I realize something was clearly the matter. She sounded oddly disconnected, her voice frail and hollow. And she looked pale too, her complexion translucent but ghastly. Between a case
of last minute nerves or coming down with something, I guessed it to be the latter. Amalia was not at all the nervous type. She was brash and fearless, always lively. So I didn’t know what to think, not as she lay lifelessly on her bed unable to muster the energy to share in the good news.

  “Amalia, chica? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Clara. I’m fine. I’m just thinking about things.”

  “Are you sure? Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Second thoughts? Are you joking?” she replied, her eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling still, her body perfectly supine.

  She managed to inject some feeling into that last statement, but I remained unconvinced. I knew something must be the matter. “Everything is still on, right? You’re sure we’re still on?

  “Of course everything is still on, Clara! Did you ever think we’d get out of here? Did you ever think it possible?”

  I felt tears well up in my eyes. Not only from the sweetness in her voice, but the sight of her so clearly troubled. But I didn’t want to cry right now, not during this moment of happiness. I managed to contain the tears until they receded fully back.

  “No,” I confessed. “I honestly didn’t think so. But it’s happening, and nothing is going to stop us—nothing!”

  I bent over and embraced her tightly, remaining at her side and unable to let go. She felt cold and mildly stiff, and I wanted to lend her some warmth. I felt I must infuse her with the raw exhilaration coursing through my veins. But despite her odd state, how beautiful my friend looked on that evening of August 14. I would always recall the peacefulness on her face as she lay still and motionless: the tranquility of her deep brown eyes, the silkiness of her wavy black hair resting atop the bedspread. Mostly her tender brown skin, pale and translucent, as if the glow of a white sun rose within her. My friend remained a natural Cuban beauty even in this peculiar state.

  She didn’t really resemble her parents to me, especially her father. But I did see the mother in her eyes: in their shape and size, in their color of chestnut-brown. The two women had long, thick lashes and identically arched eyebrows. And while Amalia’s parents were short, light complected, and wide in frame, Amalia was tall, slim, and mulata. Truth be told, she was much prettier than I.

  “You’re right,” Amalia said. “Nothing is going to stop us, chica, absolutely nothing.”

  I finally let go of her, sitting up bedside as my hand began stroking her forehead and my fingers wove themselves through her silky but lifeless hair. She never moved the entire time. She remained straight on her back in this fever of coldness, her vacant eyes never once deviating from the ceiling.

  “What time are we meeting in the morning?” I asked. “The earlier the better, I hope.”

  I continued stroking her hair and smiling down at her, becoming acutely aware of another rawness brewing through the household. But this was hardly raw exhilaration. It was a combination of nerves and tension, a hailstorm of mirth as well as mourning. Amalia had a large family, and they’d assembled for the night’s impending doom. Depending on who it was, the various family members had either come to talk her out of leaving the island or to say goodbye. But rather than address her directly, the relatives spoke of her as if she had already departed, had already gone, especially the two youngest brothers set to inherit her room who kept popping in and out. They were fraternal twins, eleven years old, and nothing at all alike.

  “My bed goes by the window,” declared the taller, leaner twin.

  “Go ahead,” spat out the shorter and wider brother. “I want my bed in the corner, where it’s dark and cold and I won’t have to look at you.”

  It was the strangest of gatherings, and I’d recall one thing the most about that night: all the raspadura, plates and plates of it everywhere I turned and looked. A large number of Amalia’s relatives had poured in from the countryside—from the interior province of Cienfuegos—and brought with them that quintessential Cuban delicacy part candy, part elixir. Raspadura was pure raw juice pressed from sugarcane stalks and left to solidify. Cubans not only ingested it as a treat, but for its medicinal purposes. It could be molded into any shape whatsoever, but we loved making long bricks out of them or fashioning them into pyramids. That was why Havana’s tallest structure—part tower, part pyramid—was affectionately known as Raspadura: a solemn memorial and monument built to honor our national apostle, José Martí.

  I didn’t know what to make of this. Why the entire evening everyone feasted on nothing but raspadura. Why despite the draining emotions weighing everyone down, a parade of frightened faces seemed fully alert and awake as if on watch for something. But feast away they did. Whether the faces were red from crying, red from drinking, or hardened with anger, they consumed raspadura. Or whether the faces were white with dread, white with resignation or white with fear, nibble away they did. The relatives from Cienfuegos had set a plate down by Amalia’s bedside, but she wouldn’t look at the raspadura, much less touch it.

  “This will bring her back!” her aunts from the countryside insisted. “You’ll see, if anything brings her back, raspadura will!”

  All movement inside the house unfolded in a strangely supernatural state, including the sounds that enveloped us. Everyone gathered to see Amalia one last time cried wrenchingly or laughed heartily. While grandparents wept inconsolably and beat their chests, her three younger brothers chuckled and spoke of her fondly. While an array of aunts and uncles sobbed woefully and wailed in unison, Amalia’s cousins laughed raucously from an endless supply of jokes. I hardly believed it when I saw Amalia’s father, the last person ever to shed a tear, actually choke up.

  Only one face seemed not the least bit affected by all the histrionics, displaying no emotion or producing so much as a single tear: Amalia’s mother. She remained surprisingly calm throughout the gathering when, normally, she was the hysterical one in any charged situation. I didn’t know what to make of it. Not unless the woman had taken medication or was simply holding it all back. The relatives from the countryside kept offering her servings of raspadura to put her in the right spirit, but she wouldn’t be swayed. “Get that away from me!” she said disdainfully. “I don’t want any part of it.”

  Through it all, the door to Amalia’s bedroom remained wide open, but nobody ever stepped foot inside. No one came in to talk to her; no one came in to touch her. The family walked up and down the hallway and looked in momentarily, but after seeing her body resting peacefully and checking to see if she’d touched her raspadura, they‘d disappear down the hallway again toward unknown regions of the house. Only her parents lingered outside the room, and we could make out all their conversations. They spoke as if nobody could hear them, as if neither of us was there.

  “Don’t worry,” the mother told the father as they stood in the doorway and peered in. “She’s not going anywhere. I’m telling you she’s not. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Assumption, and I’ve pleaded with the Virgin to keep my baby from leaving. I know the Virgin will answer my prayers. I know she’ll perform a miracle and keep Amalia from going—you’ll see!”

  This was unexpected, this effusive expression of piety. Amalia’s mother was a small and slim woman, but feisty and excitable. She always wore her black hair short and walked around in high heels. I had never known her to be religious—nowhere near as religious as Mamá anyway—but tonight she wore a veil over her head. She had also transformed the Centro Habana home into a house of worship.

  In the living room, on a makeshift altar backed against a corner, a statue of the Virgin Mary figured prominently, surrounded by flowers and votives and offerings of raspadura that the relatives from Cienfuegos had reverently placed at her feet. The family circulated back and forth in homage to the Virgin. They lit their candles, nibbled on their candy, and pleaded for their petitions to be carried out.

  Only one person in that house remained unswayed by this all and certainly did not partake in any of the rituals, openly expressing his contempt for th
em all. Amalia’s father was not the least bit religious. He made sure the house remained brightly lit and went from room to room insisting that all lights be kept on. He viewed religion as meaningless and ridiculous, as the contemptible thinking of backward people. He certainly did not view the events of this week as miraculous. He saw the attack against the Deauville as a criminal act and wished that those involved would be quickly arrested and executed by firing squad.

  As for tonight, he made something perfectly clear to his wife: he couldn’t stomach the sight of all the Catholic iconography, all the counterrevolutionary imagery: the statue of the Virgin Mary in his very living room (he allowed it, but only if she were firmly set back in the corner); the flowers and candles; the prayers and tears being shed in vain. The only thing he didn’t mind was the raspadura. He hailed from Cienfuegos, and it was his relatives who had brought over the childhood treat. He didn’t mind the jokes either and even chuckled a few times. Other than that, he viewed tonight’s prayers and offerings as a colossal waste of energy and emotion. What his daughter needed was for someone—him most likely—to break through to her delusional thinking. Amalia’s father did not believe in sobbing. He believed in sarcasm and cynicism and snide commentary.

  “Isn’t the Feast of the Assumption when Mary dies and her body rises up to Heaven?” he asked his wife.

  “Yes, mijo. You didn’t know that already? Or you just don’t remember your catechism anymore?”

  “¡Coño mija! Why then, of all the saints in Heaven, are you praying to her? Doesn’t it make sense that tomorrow, on this Feast of the Assumption, the Virgin will only make it easier for our daughter to take off and leave? Doesn’t that strike you like a ton of bricks?”

  “First of all, the Virgin is not a saint. She’s the mother of God. Secondly, she doesn’t work that way—you’ll see, you’ll see, cabrón!”

  “Well, that’s what it seems like to me,” he snidely pointed out. “That tomorrow will be the one day the Virgin helps everyone escape as if they’re dying and going somewhere! Where, I don’t know. But somewhere!”