Fifty Grand (17 page)

“Yes.”

“Am I under surveillance?”

“Neither of you is under surveillance. The DGI isn’t interested in you. Not yet. But you’ve been clumsy, Mercado, you and your brother. And clumsy doesn’t get ignored forever. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I understand.”

“So let it go. Just let it go.”

“How can I?”

“Aren’t you Cuban? Where did you grow up? Have you learned nothing? Don’t you know the game is rigged from the start?”

“What are you going to do with these guesses of yours?” I ask.

He spits on the floor. “I’m no
chivato,
I’m not going to let them know about Ricky or the manner of your father’s death or your plans, but I am going to stop them giving you that visa. If you go to America and get arrested or stopped at the border it’s over for me. I’m not going to let you destroy me, Mercado.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s too late. It’s done. I opposed your application. I sent them a letter yesterday telling them that you’re too valuable an asset and that it would be a mistake to let you go to Mexico. They’ll take the hint.”

“What about what you said in the office?”

“Oh, that was just to give them an angle. They always want an angle. The boss who lies to his subordinates.”

Now I’m angry. “You can’t do this to me, Hector.”

“I’ve been patient with you. Now, do me a favor, get the fuck out of my
building, Mercado. Take the rest of the day off, and I never want to hear about this again.”

“Fuck you and your fucking shitbox. I hope you choke in it, you old bastard!”

I storm out, cursing.

On the way up Morro a kid blows me the fucky-fucky. I flash my ID. Hassle him. Power: makes everyone a tyrant, and in a country where one in every twenty-five people is either a cop or an informant, that’s a lot of tyranny to go around. Pat the kid. Fake ID, not interested, but sixty bucks Canadian is a good get. Pretty boy. A jockey. I take the cash, tell him to fuck off.

An old man sees the dough, hisses me from an alley.

“What?”

From under his coat he removes a packet of American Tampax.

“How much?” I ask without even thinking about it, for the Cuban generic is, of course, a complete disaster.

“Twenty U.S.”

“I’ll give you ten Canadian and I won’t bust you,” I say, hovering the ID.

“Ten it is,” the old man grumbles.

Tampax and hard currency. Small comforts.

Walk to O’Reilly, climb the four flights to my apartment. Look at the coffeepot, the bottle of white rum. Ignore both. Slide back into bed. I don’t sleep. I just lie there scoping the dump a detective in the PNR gets to call her own. Bed, dresser, color TV, half a shelf of poetry books, windows uncleaned since the last hurricane, hole in the floor, ant problem, Van Gogh prints tacked over the cracks in the plaster—
Night Café, Sunflowers
—washbasin leaking brown water because the bad plumber won’t fix it, the good plumber only takes dollars.

Lie there.

Lie there all day.

Sun slanting over the Parque Central.

Fly buzzing against the window.

The phone down the hall.

Knock at the door.

The new maid at the Sevilla, a short plump girl from Cárdenas. Syphilitic nose, cross eyes. How did you get a permit to move to Havana? Who do you know?

“Phone call for you,” she says.

Wipe her sweat off the mouthpiece.

“Your visa came,” Ricky says breathlessly.

“What?”

“It came. Of course they sent it to Mom’s. I’m here now. Hand-delivered. Good thing I was here.”

“Jesus, it came?”

“It came. Seven days. Mexico City only.”

“What’s the date? Hector said he spiked it yesterday.”

“He did? I thought he liked you? Well, I guess his influence isn’t as strong as he thinks,” Ricky says with a knowing lilt in his voice.

“
You
did something, didn’t you? You talked to people. In the circle.”

“I didn’t. I really didn’t.”

“You’re at Mom’s? Aren’t you the dutiful son? Wait there, I’ll be right over.”

Out of bed, wash off the makeup I put on for Hector, look at the woman in the glass. Pale, pretty, a little too thin, narrow eyebrows, uncomplicated green eyes, dark hair. Something about her, though, something a little intimidating. If she had glasses you might say she was severe, a librarian, perhaps, or a staff nurse, or a fucking cop.

Back down the stairs.

Out.

My mother’s place is on Suárez next to the station. Filthy little building in a street of filthy little buildings. Black neighborhood.
Negros de pasas. Negros de pelo
. Most of the men are voodoo priests or initiates and all the women are Iyawó, brides of the orishas, the deities of the Lucumí religion.

A scary place after dark. Scary place anytime.

Barefoot children roaming the streets. “Give us some money, nice lady,” they chant at the corner. Once I did give them money and they followed me all the way back to O’Reilly.

Mom’s building. Broken front door, garbage and filth over the tiled stairs. Dog shit everywhere.

Usual soundtrack. Fights, the TV, American music, kids yelling, babies crying, Haitian music. Four flights. On four a woman my age says hello. I’ve seen her before, an Iyawó fortune-teller,
negro azul,
wearing bright West African clothes. Long black hair and even longer nails, cruel smile, creepy as hell.

“No husband yet,” she says.

“No.”

“I’ll help you catch one.”

“That’s ok.”

“Don’t think you’ll get one where you’re going,” she says.

“Oh. And where am I going?”

“You know,” she says with an ugly laugh and with I-don’t-give-a-shit slowness she closes her door.

Walk the landing. Mom’s. Knock, knock.

Ricky opens it. Looks good. Blue cotton shirt and American chino pants and slip-on shoes.

“Hi, darling,” he says, kisses me.

“Handsomer than ever,” I tell him.

“I could say the same,” he replies.

“But you won’t.”

“Of course I will, you look great.”

“How is she?” I ask, my voice descending into a whisper.

“No worse than usual. I brought her some flowers. Cheered her up,” he says.

“Again, you’re such a good son,” I tell him.

“Well, I want to be remembered in the will,” he says with a grin.

I take his hand and step in. Mom has all the blinds drawn and the lights are off. No light anywhere except for the candles in front of the Santería shrine. Layers of dust, dust on the dust. Mom sitting at the table we bought her, looking at tarot cards. She doesn’t even notice when I sidle next to her. She’s wearing a tattered dress that exposes one of her breasts. Her face is haggard. She’s lost weight since last week and the expression in her eyes is watery, remote, distant. “Hi, Mom,” I say and kiss her.

“Hello, my baby girl,” she replies, looking up for a moment and then going back to the cards.

I watch her for a while. I have no idea what she’s doing and I don’t want to know.

“She’s lost weight,” I tell Ricky.

“She trades her supply-book tokens for candles and spells from the priestesses.”

The room’s full of stuff like that. Lucumí gods and goddesses straight from West Africa. I recognize some, but most are utterly unfamiliar. And not just Lucumí—an eclectic mix from many pantheons: a brass Ganesh and his
mother, Saraswati; a porcelain Virgin Mary; prayer flags from Tibet; a huge carved wooden Apollo.

Mom starts mumbling to herself over the tarot.

“She’s gotten worse.”

Ricky shakes his head. “No worse. She’s doing ok.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“You don’t see her as much as I do,” Ricky says with a smile to show that he’s not criticizing.

“Those bitches really got their hooks into her with this shit. I’ll tell them to leave her fucking ration book alone,” I say angrily.

“I bring her food, she’s ok,” Ricky says.

“Quite the little saint,” I say with a grin but also an edge.

Silence. Seconds turning into minutes. Claustrophobia. Get up. Walk around. I note again that Dad’s ashes are gone from the mantel. I don’t even want to think what she did with them.

More time. More suffocating seconds. God, I hate this place.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay here,” I say.

Ricky nods. “At least tell Mom you’re leaving the country.”

She’s dozing now. I kneel in front of her and take her hands and kiss them. She looks up, a little sparkle in those yellow eyes.

“My darling,” she says.

“Mom, I’m going now. I’m going away for a while.”

She nods and then, as if the veil has lifted for a moment, she says: “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Ricky walks me to the landing. “Don’t forget your letter,” he says, and hands me the forms from the Interior Ministry. Of course it requires a fee, but once paid, I’ll have that rarest of rare things—permission to leave Cuba. An exit visa. A key to the prison door.

I hold it to the light and then I kiss it.

“How did I get this? You pulled some strings, didn’t you?”

He shakes his head. “Even if I was fucking the minister’s private secretary I wouldn’t ask him for something like this. We’d all be headed for the plantations.”

“Then how?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s a mystery.”

“Yeah, it is.”

The Last Act.

The wee hours.

After all the tails have gone to bed.

Bang at my apartment door.

Who the fuck?

Open it.

“So you went above my head?” Hector says bitterly.

Rum breath. Bleary eyes.

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Ricky then?”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“Own initiative, eh?”

“He says he didn’t do anything.”

He pushes past me, sits on my bed. “Can’t stay, told Anna I was getting some air. Have a drink,” he says and passes me the flask.

“No, thank you.”

“Fuck Ricky and fuck you, Mercado. If you don’t come back from the United States I’m finished. My family. Your family. All of us.”

“I’ll come back.”

He shakes his head like a wet dog. “I could still tell them, you know. I could still tell the DGI or the ministry that you’re going to La Yuma. I could tell them you’ve talked to me about defecting,” Hector snarls.

“You wouldn’t do that, Hector.”

“No?” he says.

“No,” I insist.

He balls his right fist angrily and thumps it on the bed. For a second I see him tossing the joint. Neighbors in the hall, phone calls, Hector pulling rank. But the fight’s been ground out of him. He sighs. “No, I won’t turn
chivato,
not now,” he says.

He takes another drink, gets heavily to his feet.

“Can’t stay,” he says.

In the doorway he grabs my wrist, tugs me close. “Forget about it, Mercado.”

I break free using first-week police aikido.

“Damn it,” he says and stares at me, mentally wounded.

“Listen to me, Hector, I’m not dumb, I’m going to go to you-know-where, but I promise I will be back,” I tell him. “Now, you should go home, Anna will be worried.”

He looks at the floor and doesn’t move.

“You’re a poet, Mercado,” he says.

“I don’t know how that rumor got started.”

“Ever read Pindar?”

“No.”

“Homer’s contemporary, except he really existed. He says, ‘The gods give us for every good thing two evil ones. Men who are children take this badly but the manly ones bear it, turning the brightness outward.’ ”

“I don’t see—”

“You can’t fix everything. You have to let things go. Don’t go to America. I’m begging you, Mercado, please don’t go.”

I don’t reply.

I don’t need to.

He nods, turns, and walks along the corridor. I hear him shuffle down the stairs, and from my window I check him for tails until O’Reilly becomes Misiones and he’s finally swallowed up by the boozy Havana night.

T
oo late, Hector. Too late now, my friend, to heed your words. I’m here and I’ve killed human beings and that chance to turn your brightness outward is in the distant past
.

I suppose I must have been awake, but it was only on the third or fourth iteration that I became vaguely aware of the voice.