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

  What in the world had I just witnessed? What on earth had I just lived through? I couldn’t make any sense of it all, but one good thing did come of it: the emotional blackmail had not derailed me any; in fact, I felt more grounded than ever. How I pitied this family and any like it. So caught up in trite desperation they couldn’t think sensibly. So intent on parental selfishness that they preferred to hold their daughter back and sacrifice her future just for the comfort of having her nearby. Thank goodness I had no interest in being a parent. Thank goodness I did not ever want to bear any children.

  I just didn’t get it. Couldn’t the naysayers understand that nobody was forcing anyone to do anything? Didn’t they realize this miracle had visited us for a reason? I loved Amalia’s parents, but they were wrong. Even this minor setback involving the raft would not deter me any. Still, I must be more compassionate. It wasn’t their fault. Some of us would always live in darkness, others would discover a hidden light. So I would not let Amalia’s news discourage me. Henry could fix anything, and La Maloja would be fine come morning.

  I coursed my way through the streets of Centro Habana, and for a few harrowing moments, a new chorus of wails rang out. As our nightly blackout doused everything in a suffocating black, residents clanged on pots from their balconies, pounded on windows from their living rooms, or banged on pans from their stairwells. Whether it was a chorus of resentment or a choir of rejoicing, I couldn’t tell. I just wanted to get home. I wondered whether Rigo had yet returned and whether Mamá and my sisters might still be out. Would I be entering a dark and empty house or stepping into my own family crisis? My family was much smaller than Amalia’s. We were not at all the size of a typical Cuban clan.

  The streets were filled with people this evening, pulsing with a raw exhilaration of their own. It felt like New Year’s Eve, like Carnival time even. That explained all the police out, all the mongrels in blue and in their black boots and belts. I hated men in uniform. I despised any kind of uniformity. But there were droves of those uniforms everywhere, which meant only one thing: they were expecting problems tonight. They were sniffing for any hint of trouble or looking out for any sign of resistance. I felt like an easy target, but despite the police presence I pushed on, coursing my way defiantly through the narrow streets and pulsing anonymously in my resolve.

  Dusk had gone. No more partial darkness. No more sign of its opaqueness as Night gave rise to a cool and thin air. A warm and inward light stirred within my breast and illuminated my path home, shining on a parade of faces so that with each one I encountered, I wondered what that face might mean. Was it the face of someone partaking of the miracle or of someone ignoring it? Was it the face of someone choosing freedom and life or submitting to death? In short, was it the face of a wise man or a fool?

  If I had felt drained and exhausted earlier, I no longer did. Not as these silent contemplations swirled within. Not as they injected me with jolts of pure and raw energy. And certainly not as everything surrounding me surged and pulsed with life through all the twists and turns of our city.

  Nine days since the miracle at the Deauville. Nine days since those who ruled every aspect of our lives here—the ones who kept constant watch over us—called it an “act of terror.” Still, that didn’t deter anyone from wanting to bear witness to the infamous act: ¡El Maleconazo! Many continued gravitating toward the flashpoint for any sign of last week’s rebellion. Rumor had it that visitors from all over the island, as if in pilgrimage, kept pouring into the capital just to see the hotel for themselves, personally wanting to see where the incident had unfolded and hoping to view any remnants of the revolt with their own eyes.

  The answer was no. The government wasted no time in fixing the broken windows of the Deauville and replacing them on that same August 5, all in a futile attempt to erase any sign of the insurgence. Did that explain all the people out tonight? Was that what all these faces meant? Were all these visitors merely attending a wake and paying their respects to the Deauville one last time before this historic act of rebellion was finally laid to rest?

  I lived close by, on Calle Perseverancia, and reached my street in no time. I was just about to turn the corner onto my block of decaying and crumbling houses when I felt something tugging at me, something faint yet forceful: the unexpected pull of the Malecón. Our famous seawall beckoned me back in the other direction.

  I stopped and wavered, and in those fleeting moments of indecision, one of the mongrels in blue took note of me. I could sense his suspicious eyes all over my body. I could feel them on my back. What exactly were they keeping watch over? What exactly were they expecting? This had to be the only nation on earth where standing stationary was a threat to the country’s security.

  I was sure Rigo must be home by now. I was anxious to get back to him. But I couldn’t break the pull of the Malecón. It urged me toward it. It called me back in the other direction. It was the taste of something sweet in my mind that wouldn’t wash clean. I hadn’t visited the seafront for weeks now. Not since the end of July when I’d waited with the multitudes for the ferry that never came. Since then I’d had no desire to return. But now, in a trance of sorts, I gravitated toward it, approaching that beloved part of our city where water met land and dreams delicately unfolded or folded back up.

  I could no longer resist and caved in to its call. I would visit the Malecón one last time, even if just to say goodbye to my city and bid it a melancholy farewell. It was asking for trouble and I knew it. The majority of the mongrels were stationed there, keeping empty watch over our restive populace and expecting imaginary trouble. I knew who I was. I knew I had trouble written all over my face. No doubt they would stop and harass me, but I no longer cared. I was leaving tomorrow. So let the mongrels just try.

  “Yes,” I would snarl at them. “How can I help you? What do you want? You see, while you continue to rot in this cesspool of Socialism, I’m getting the hell out of here tomorrow. While you continue to corrode inside this trashcan of Communism, my body will float toward freedom and democracy. My body will take to the sea and there’s nothing you can do to stop me—nothing!”

  It may have been mid-August, but it felt cool out. I picked up the pace to keep warm. I managed to arrive at the seawall completely unnoticed, no contact with anyone or anything. Sure enough, the mongrels were all there: dozens and dozens fanned out across the Malecón, scores of them in full force. They too seemed involved in some kind of wake. Not over those already deceased. Not over those who embraced the living death here and settled back into an afterlife of atrophy. Only over those with a hidden light. Those with a spark of energy and in a fury to flee.

  Clearly, the mongrels knew which one I was. Clearly they sensed the firestorm of exhilaration burning within and thus they eyed me. Indeed, it didn’t take long before a pack of them encased me on both sides, but I ignored it. As long as I stayed focused on the water, their presence had no effect on me. As long as I looked out to sea, I could shield myself from their gauntlet.

  The Malecón. Like any native of Havana how I loved that delicate necklace that wound its way along the bay. Just as the Eiffel Tower was the face of Paris and the Empire State Building that of New York, the Malecón was the face of our city. For some time now it had signified nothing to me. I had come to view it as an old and crumbling seawall, a corral to rein in and further confine the heart of our city. Not tonight. Not the night before our departure. Now I saw it as an elegant and aged gate waiting to open up and eagerly show us the way out.

  And what a beautiful night. As I stood at the wall by the sea, never had I seen the night sky so richly textured, so much in motion. It was layered in distinct shades of color: above the horizon lay a band of charcoal, raw and gritty. Above this a delicate layer of ashen gray spun in wisps of cotton. And above them both a thick blanket of black softly pressed down. What an unusual sight: these three bands that lay atop each other as if sharing a bed in the night sky. And what a dazzling array of light scattered throughou
t—not just along the skyline, but in a sprinkling of white and silver and even vanilla that hung high overhead. I couldn’t be sure if all these lights resembled stars or granules of finely powdered sugar swirling and crystalizing deep in the tropical night.

  What a magical spot where I stood, from where our stately skyline sparkled so brightly. If it were it up to me, we would leave from here rather than Cojimar. No better place existed to stage an exit. The Malecón, the launching spot of every Cuban’s hopes and dreams. But for now I put such notions aside. I wanted to enjoy the exhilaration of the night sky and its glimmering pulse of lights, to intoxicate myself with the whispering sounds of the ocean and the seductiveness of its scent.

  How I loved the water. I had all my life. Just not at night. How different the sea was at nighttime than during the day. In the light of day it was always a warm and friendly face, a familiar and smiling friend. But at night it was an unknown stranger with all its inherent dangers and something to be avoided. As much as I trusted in the events of this past week and knew them to be miraculous, thank God we were leaving in the morning. I could never take to the water at night. I could never let that unknown stranger blindly guide me. To think of all the brothers and sisters who had taken their journey under cover of night only to perish, who had trustingly accepted the hand of that stranger only to be betrayed by it. That was valor. That was raw courage and I shivered thinking about it.

  But what did it matter? Regardless of where we left from, I loved the Malecón and always would. So much of my life revolved around this sturdy seawall and its sweeping vistas. It was here I came to realize I had fallen in love with Rigo and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. It happened one night in late November. There were no lights sprinkled across the sky that night, just a thin canvas of clouds. I looked up and saw his face flashing before me, burning through the harbor sky. From that moment on his face wouldn’t stop flashing across the expanse of my mind, racing back and forth between my heart and head and leaving no room for doubt as to how I felt: I loved him.

  These were the lifelong memories I would always treasure of the Malecón, the way its essence was ingrained into mine. Those who visited our island admired the majesty of its views; those who grew up here appreciated its mystery and magic. Whether we leaned forward against the wall, sat on it restfully, or laid back and gazed up, the Malecón of Havana was intrinsically Cuban. How many dreams had come to life at this seawall as I stared at the sky that blended into the sea? How many plans were hatched here as I heard the whispering sounds of the water? And how many things, both good and bad, had developed or drowned here—desire as well as doubt?

  I felt restless again, in the throes of that anxiousness that had gripped me earlier. Dusk was gone, but determination clung on. The evening air turned ever cooler and I longed for warmth. But as I stood and clasped my arms and even shivered in place, something other than a tingly breeze pricked away at me: gusts of hesitation, breaths of uncertainty, the slightest jabs of doubt started poking away. And these entanglements of emotion were bad enough, but now I felt the pangs of a nascent and nagging doubt.

  It had to be the news my friend had given me. I must be fretting about our vessel, the Maloja, and whether it would be finished in time, whether it would float all right, whether Amalia would be feeling well enough by tomorrow, and whether Rigo might not just put a halt to everything. It had to be all these pulsings of preoccupation. How I longed to believe this even if something more powerful kept pulling at me, something more terrifying tugged at my heart. It was not the sight of Rigo that came to me at the moment, but of Amalia’s parents gnawing and gnashing away at each other; the sight of those fretful family faces flittering all about. Mostly, it was the sight of Amalia’s father as he knelt at his daughter’s bedside and wept.

  Was he right? Had we really thought this through? Had we considered all the consequences of leaving home and family never to return? I looked up for an answer, gazing at the sky as it slumbered impassively atop the water. Those bands of color had fully dispersed. No longer did they share a cozy bed in the night sky: the charcoal had clearly won out and churned the other two out. And that sprinkling of light had faded as well, receding behind a curtain of newly formed clouds to become the captive rays of a hidden white sun. The harbor sky fascinated me as it always did, but it was not Rigo I saw or a feeling of love dawning on me. Instead, it was the image of my older sister Pilar and a growing sense of guilt. It was her face flashing before me and an ever-encroaching dread about abandoning her. But why was this striking me now of all times? Why was raw exhilaration being doused by some insidious dusk of doubt? For some reason a flimsy veil of incertitude was trying to cloak me in a partial darkness.

  I didn’t know what to make of it, but I wouldn’t give in. I’d be strong and remember Rigo’s words to me earlier: we were committed now, no turning back! Not even a sense of duty toward Pilar could make me retreat. How could I? How could I entertain a scintilla of doubt after what Rigo and I had gone through the last couple of years? Not just us, but my father, my sister—everyone in the family. Yet, as much as we all had suffered during this Special Period, Pilar was all I cared about. The mere thought of leaving her certainly left me feeling wretched and raw, but first thing in the morning Rigo and I were out of there. No turning back!

  For the second time that night, tears filled my eyes. This time they did not stage a quick retreat. This time they marched straight down my face. No moving backwards. Not as the last few years in Cuba flashed before my eyes against the backdrop of a bad dream. Not as they unfolded like a giant flashback above a graveyard lit dimly in charcoal and ash. And not as I decided to bring an end to this never-ending wake and discard all the deaths in my life: the hardships, the frustrations, all the tragedies that had visited us.

  I pushed back now. I resisted these newly festering qualms and told myself it was all very normal. This dusk of indecision was only natural and would soon begin to disintegrate until it fully dispersed. Miracle or not, whenever anyone arrived at a monumental decision such as this, it was only typical to be plagued by all sorts of second thoughts. By seeds, by shadows, by visitations of doubt. That was all this signified. Under such difficult and trying circumstances, it was perfectly natural to be hampered by and fall prey to and be visited by doubt.

  3

  visitations

  august 14

  flashback in the night

  Three days prior, on August 11 when I first mentioned leaving, there had certainly been no doubt.

  I thought Rigo would be thrilled by the prospect of fleeing Cuba, even on a homemade raft called the Maloja. He too hated life here and felt dead inside, he just never acknowledged that death openly. He buried it deep within and fed his foolish hope.

  But if anyone had legitimate cause for abandoning his homeland, my husband did. All his life he had wanted to be an architect, dreaming of erecting skyscrapers and other towering structures. Even when I was twelve and Rigo was nineteen, when most guys that age spent their free time playing baseball or hanging out with friends, I, the neighborhood pest, could find him sketching and illustrating or making schematics of all the fantastic ideas firing off in his head. Science fiction, he used to call the drawings. Rigo intrigued me so, which made it easy to fall in love with him.

  He realized his dream of becoming an architect, studying at Cuba’s premiere Instituto de Arquitectura. Rigo possessed such talent that he was the first to be selected for a spot in Havana’s internationally renowned institute and even graduated at the top of his class. My husband showed such promise throughout his studies, and his professors held him in such high esteem, that right before completion of his degree and becoming fully licensed by the state, Rigo was informed of an exciting new project. The Ministry of Economic Development not only wanted him to help design this project, but possibly lead it: a series of new luxury hotels along the beaches of Santa Lucía, Cuba’s pristine archipelago off the northeastern coast of Camagüey.

&nb
sp; Rigo reacted in a manner less than thrilled. “Camagüey? But I just got married. Will my wife be able to join me?”

  “No!” came the resounding reply. “There aren’t the funds for that. You can come home one weekend a month if you want, but that’s it. Are you interested or not, compañero?”

  Rigo sensed it might put a strain on our new marriage, but he was interested, more than interested. He was so excited he couldn’t sleep nights, and on many occasions, I’d find him awake at two or three in the morning sketching and drawing and drafting blueprints when he should have been resting by my side. This project along the beaches of Santa Lucía had received such staunch approval from the highest levels of government that the ministry decided to accelerate its launch. A couple months ahead of schedule, Rigo received word to start packing. The ministry was dispatching a planning committee to Camagüey’s northeastern coast.

  “We want to see some of your schematics,” they told him. “And right away.”

  Rigo couldn’t wait to break the wonderful news. Of course, I was upset. We’d been married less than a year, and I didn’t want him gone from me. I never felt more whole or complete than when I had him at my side. Not to mention that Camagüey seemed so far away: a tedious ten-hour train ride from Havana. But I figured this was our punishment, what we got for growing up in the same neighborhood and knowing each other all our lives. Even so, I remained passionate and loved him with all my heart. I was only twelve when I fell in love with Rigo, and he was nineteen. I knew I was much too young for him, but even then I wanted to marry Rigo some day and spend the rest of my life with him.

  True, Rigo wasn’t the most handsome of men, but he did have strong hands and a great body that I worshipped. More importantly, he possessed a humble heart and loved his family. He was loyal, affable in nature, and everybody liked him. He had glowing reports from his professors, all of whom had very strong ties to the ministry, and it was easy to see why they selected Rigo for this project. He had the talent, personality, and drive. Rigo was the full package. That was why it made no sense when, out of nowhere, the night before he was all set to go, after fully preparing his suitcases and packing some pre-preliminary sketches he wanted to take on the expedition, Rigo received the most upsetting call of his life.