Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Page 6

  “Start unpacking, chico,” officials informed him matter-of-factly. “The trip is off.”

  Rigo refused to believe it, he couldn’t believe it. He thought it must all be a practical joke and somebody would call back right away and confess. But nobody called or stopped by or sent any other form of communication. Maybe he’d done something wrong. Maybe he’d offended the wrong person or had inspired jealousy among a superior. Rigo was so intent on being a part of this project he called back and agreed to work for free if necessary.

  “Consider it volunteer labor,” he said, determined to get his foot in the door and wanting to know what he’d done.

  “You haven’t done anything,” officials assured him. “You have a sterling record and a bright future in this country. All we can tell you is the project has been put on hold—indefinite hold.”

  If this was meant to make him feel better, Rigo felt himself drowning in devastation. He’d never experienced any form of disappointment in his life, and this crushed him. But he suspected something else at play here and meant to find out. He visited someone who would know and whom he trusted implicitly: a professor who taught North American form and design with an emphasis on the twentieth-century architecture of San Francisco. Of all his six years of intense study, this was Rigo’s favorite class.

  As expected, the professor knew precisely what was going on, and there was, indeed, something brewing behind that thin explanation they had doled out for his student.

  “Well, chico,” his former professor began. “The project is on hold all right; that part is true.”

  “There’s another part?” Rigo asked. “What and for how long?”

  “Forever,” the professor bluntly informed him. “You didn’t hear this from me, Rigo, but there’s been a big change of plans around here, real big.”

  “What type of change of plans?”

  “I know I can confide in you, Rigo, just as you can always confide in me. Still, I have to stress the confidential nature of this. Effective immediately, all projects on this massive a scale will be granted to companies of foreign governments.”

  “What!” Rigo asked in shock. “No!”

  “Yes, chico. The ministry has conducted a resource planning study and concluded that Cuba lacks the means to execute so enormous a project, that it lacks the skill to put in effect so grand a scheme. They’ve decided to outsource.”

  “Outsource?” repeated Rigo, barely able to pronounce the word in his thick Cuban accent. “What in the hell is that?”

  The professor explained the idea behind outsourcing and how, just now, the concept was barely taking form and still highly experimental. But soon it would set a trend for the future, whether a country was Capitalist, Communist, Democratic or a Dictatorship.

  “Like it or not, it’s the way of the future,” he said sadly. “Only one good thing will come out of this outsourcing.”

  “What’s that?” Rigo asked.

  “Local jobs, albeit low-paying jobs.”

  Rigo apologized for his outburst and for his use of foul language, even though, in Cuba, foul language was not the exception but the norm. Still, he had meant no disrespect to his favorite instructor and felt ashamed. And had shame been the only emotion Rigo grappled with it might have been easier to pick up the pieces, but it was not. Again came defeat: a sweeping defeat; a dizzying, demoralizing defeat that descended on him and totally displaced him. For weeks my husband functioned in a daze, moping around the house and doing absolutely nothing. I’d never seen him so sedentary or morose. I knew not how to help. I couldn’t reach him. It pained me to take so drastic a step, but I had no choice. I’d have to call the one person I hated resorting to in any time of trouble: my motherin-law Mihrta. I knew she could help, but I also knew she’d find a way to make me feel useless in this crisis—and she did. I’d never seen her more animated or in higher spirits than the day she came over to see what ailed her baby.

  “He’ll have to move back home for a week,” Mihrta announced. “Maybe two.”

  “But he is home,” I protested. “We’re married, remember?”

  “Of course you are, mija. I mean his home home, not his adopted home. Now don’t worry, one week won’t kill you. Just think of how you’ll have your husband back to normal and good as new.”

  Mihrta had never liked me and decided that even when I was twelve, she should be brutally blunt with me. “I know what you’re after,” she said one day. “Just stop wasting your time, mijita. My son is too old for you, and he’s not going to wait around.”

  But she was wrong. Rigo did wait, and she’d never forgiven me for it. Just as she’d never forgiven me that, upon our marrying, we decided to move in with my family rather than his. Like every newlywed couple in Cuba, we had to choose living with one set of in-laws or the other. No such thing as marrying and having your own place, much less owning your own home. Not with all the severe housing shortages, especially in Havana. After my father’s death it made no sense to move in with Rigo’s family, which included two younger brothers. Mihrta blamed me for that decision too.

  After the wedding she fell into a depression so deep and mournful the doctors recommended electroshock therapy. Everybody tried talking her out of it, terrified of what so drastic a treatment might do, fearful it might leave her in a permanent vegetative state. But it worked. Mihrta came back stronger and livelier, more determined than ever. The voltage in her brain worked such wonders she swore by electroshock therapy as a miraculous cure-all. Rigo’s younger brother was studying electrical engineering and Mihrta insisted he invent a home version of the therapy. He managed to come up with something all right, but almost burned the house down in doing so.

  I didn’t know what was going on over there, how Mihrta was putting her healing hands to use, whether she was feeding him chicken soup or hooking him up to a cord and lamp. One week turned into two, and two became three, and I feared I might never see my husband again. Then Providence intervened and brought Rigo back to life and back to me, or so I thought. It happened without notice again. He had decided to visit his favorite professor to discuss the prospect of switching to teaching when, unexpectedly, he got a call about another exciting project.

  “Don’t tell me,” he began sarcastically, knowing all about outsourcing and how, soon, it would set a course for the entire future. “More luxury hotels?”

  “No,” they replied, missing the sarcasm in his voice. “Nothing as glamorous as that, but infinitely more important.”

  They had piqued his curiosity with their cryptic teasing. Maybe the Ministry of Housing had approved a new construction project. “Well?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “A school!” they announced excitedly. “A very special school!”

  “What type of school?” he asked cynically.

  “One the Revolution is in dire need of,” they explained. “One the Revolution can no longer place on hold or put off indefinitely, and we want you in charge of it, chico. We want it to be a prototype for all future schools in Cuba.”

  Before they provided him with any specifics, Rigo’s mind fired away. He wished he had pencil and paper right then and there because he could already see this school vividly in his mind. Not a single-story complex typical of the traditional Latin American school, but a tall and futuristic structure fashioned from steel and glass and metal and windows on all four sides, windows from floor to ceiling that allowed a panoramic light to stream in and from which faculty and student alike could gaze into infinity. Rigo had already calculated the height of the building and how many stories it should have, and just to teach everyone a lesson, he would design this new school like a hotel, a luxury hotel. It may have been years away from completion, and even years away from rising off the ground, but already Rigo couldn’t wait for the christening of this landmark building that would punctuate Havana’s skyline with a bold exclamation point.

  “Just wait!” he told the officials. “I’m going to design a school like no other. It will be the mos
t innovative and recognizable school Havana has ever seen.”

  “Havana?” they scoffed. “Who said anything about Havana?”

  “Isn’t that where it’s going to be?” he asked. “Isn’t the school for right here in the capital?”

  “Absolutely not!” they declared. “The last thing Havana needs is another school. In fact, the ministry recently decided there are too many schools in the city and wants to shut some down.”

  “Oh,” said Rigo. “Well, where then?”

  “¡Camagüey!” they proudly announced. “In the little town of Rio Piedras in the historic and colonial province of Camagüey.”

  Rigo’s heart deflated and sank. ¡Camagüey! Again! No, he couldn’t have heard correctly. “Did you say Camagüey?” he asked.

  This time the officials caught the tinge of disappointment in his voice and homed in on it. “Is there a problem compañero?”

  “No,” he said. “No problem. It’s just that, as you know, I’m married and all, and—”

  “You were willing to go there before,” they countered.

  “I know, but you see, I feel bad about leaving my wife now, and, well—”

  “You didn’t feel bad about leaving her when it was luxury hotels you were going to build. You only feel bad now that the project involves a school and your prospects aren’t quite as glamorous.”

  “Oh no,” Rigo replied, trying to do some quick damage control. “It won’t be a problem. I can assure you, no problem at all.”

  “Glad to hear it, compañero, glad to hear it. Don’t worry,” they said. “It’s only nine hundred kilometers away. One weekend home a month will be more than enough for you.”

  Rigo took hold of his senses and further acquiesced. “Yes,” he said. “That’ll be fine.”

  “Good to hear,” they assured him yet again. “Good to hear. And listen. We know you’re a newlywed, but just wait. In a few years you’ll be begging us to send you to Camagüey. No, you’ll be begging us to send you to Angola.”

  Rigo didn’t know if they were joking or not, but regardless, the officials were totally off base. My husband loved me more than anything and didn’t find their jaded humor the least bit amusing. Still, he knew they were due proper respect and acknowledgement.

  “That’s funny,” he said with a very thin laugh. “Very funny.”

  “Listen,” they further advised him. “You just concentrate on building this school and doing a good job, and the sooner you complete it, the sooner you’ll come home to your wife seven days a week. How’s that?”

  Rigo couldn’t ask for anything more, and he knew it. “Do you think I can work in Havana then?” he asked. “Do you think some projects might open up in the capital?”

  “Oh, yes,” they replied. “Projects are always opening up in the capital, compañero, you know that. And with someone of your exceptional talents, well, you’ll get top choice of any project you want.”

  It seemed a done deal. He either went to the town of Rio Piedras in Camagüey to build this school, or he could kiss his fledgling career goodbye. With Mihrta’s unwavering insistence, Rigo chose Camagüey, ashamed to admit that he really didn’t know much about this silent province to the east. Only that it relied on cattle production and agriculture for its existence and was known the world over for its tinajones—giant clay pots used for collecting rainwater. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. All by himself and without Havana’s big city distractions, Rigo could bury himself in his work. He could complete the project ahead of schedule and return home all the sooner. His housing would be provided at a large cattle co-op, but this did not mean extra meat in his diet; in fact, when it came to working and living at cattle co-ops, the state required workers be strictly vegetarian.

  Rigo was promised a team of ranch hands from this co-op to help with construction, and he planned on cracking the whip. He would not permit any delays or allow anything to derail a tight timeline. He wasn’t just doing it for selfish reasons either. He thought of the time, money, and resources he’d be saving the Revolution. It was a laudable goal, especially for someone so young.

  But commendable and ambitious as his objectives were, almost immediately upon stepping foot on Camagüey soil, Rigo knew he had problems, big problems. It happened the moment he submitted his schematics to the local leaders who’d been appointed to oversee the project and report back to the ministry.

  “What’s this?” they asked. “This doesn’t look like a school. It looks like a hotel, a luxury hotel.”

  Rigo calmly explained the way officials had presented the project to him: that it was supposed to be a school of the future, a prototype for all subsequent schools on the island, and more than anything, the ministry wanted some groundbreaking, revolutionary design. Rigo whipped out his portfolio and all who had gathered around savored his visionary sketches and designs. Not surprisingly, by the end of the presentation, Rigo had won over every official with his intellect and charm. They had never met anyone like him. They were more than impressed and recognized that, in Rigo, they had secured a talented and driven individual who could make things happen. Unfortunately, they had some bad news. They were sorry to inform him that clearly, some grave miscommunication had occurred.

  “Look,” they said. “We don’t know what you were told in Havana, but all we need is a simple primary school house on our rolling plains. That’s all, with two, maybe three rooms at most.”

  “That’s it?” Rigo asked.

  “Yes. You see, there’s a community of cattle ranchers here, meat eaters, who not only refuse to read and write, they refuse to let their children learn to read and write. This is a crime against the state, as you know, and we’ve been instructed by party leaders that these hooligans and their offspring must come into compliance within a year and become fully literate—without fail!”

  “I see,” said Rigo.

  “Yes, and they have finally agreed, but only as long as the school is located at the cattle co-op where the children can tend to their duties and learn.”

  “Oh,” said Rigo.

  “That’s all we need, compañero—a little schoolhouse. Besides, how could you possibly build a school of your proportions here? Where would all the workers come from?”

  “Right here,” he said. “I was told they’d come from right here in the cattle co-op.”

  “Impossible!” local leaders countered. “Again, I don’t know what they told you in Havana, but everyone here is busy helping with the new project in the province, even us.”

  “New project?” Rigo asked. “What new project?”

  Every pair of eyes lit up magically, electrically. “Why, a series of luxury hotels along the coast,” they replied. “And they’re going to be beautiful.”

  Rigo felt himself in the grip of some inner trembling but managed to quell it. “Not in Santa Lucía?” he asked.

  “Why, yes!” they exclaimed. “How did you know?”

  Rigo’s heart pounded savagely. Had he been lied to after all? Had they tricked him? Was the project back in the works with Cuban firms and Cuban workers? It had to be. Local leaders had no reason to lie to him. Had he offended someone after all? Had he stepped on the wrong toes? Rigo immediately wanted to call his favorite professor, but the phone lines in Camagüey did not reach Havana. Unable to take any action, he was beside himself. Rigo had planned on laboring and toiling through his first weekend in Camagüey, but now he issued a statement canceling all scheduled work.

  “Both days?” they asked.

  “Both days,” he replied. “You see, I’ve got a couple aunts who live right here in Camagüey, and they insist I come over for dinner my first weekend or they’ll never forgive me.”

  Residents from the co-op understood. Those from the countryside knew better than anyone about the politics of extended family. But Rigo had no aunts in Camagüey. Not any aunts, direct or through marriage. Not any close family or distant. He didn’t know a soul in the province. Rigo lied because he needed to settle something critical b
efore lifting so much as a finger at their request.

  That Saturday morning he paid a driver to take him from the remote pueblo of Rio Piedras toward the beaches of Santa Lucía, knowing exactly where to go. He had, after all, been privy to the coordinates in the blueprints and knew precisely where groundbreaking for the project was slated. Rigo wasn’t sure what he might discover there, but suspected he had been lied to. Well, he was partially in the right. On the one hand, they had lied to him, but on the other hand they hadn’t.

  Outsourcing was definitely thriving along the pristine coastline of Santa Lucía, and in full force. This was evident as he looked around and noticed the corporate placards of numerous foreign companies staked in the ground there: Canadian companies. Spanish companies. Japanese firms, and even Chinese ones. Yes, Chinese! Those who were supposed to be stauncher communists than the Cubans.

  But that did not come as the big shock. If Rigo remembered that all this outsourcing would create local jobs, that could hardly be the case at the moment. Not with every worker in sight running around with an efficiency and intensity he had never witnessed in his life. The everyday Cuban did not work like this; clearly these were all foreigners. There were definitely some locals there, but only a few. He could tell from their appearance, from their manner of dress and their diction especially. Camagüeyans actually pronounced their words rather than ate them. Rigo recognized a few cattle hands from the co-op, some of the vegetarians, and approached them on their break.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked. “What is all this?”