Havana Noir (32 page)
But neither could the santera Margarita be underestimated; he could still feel her screams in his deaf ears: “I gave her to Yewá for a very powerful reason! There is no mistake!”
But to what powerful reason could Margarita be referring? Was she simply trying to avoid explaining? Then Gaytán remembered how disconcerted the oriaté who’d brought Elodia had been over the readings he’d done for her and the dead soul who’d kept coming up. And suddenly everything became clear to Gaytán. How could he have missed it before? What had he been thinking? Why, he really did deserve to have Margarita call him a fool!
“Elodia, my dear, give me your hand, I want to feel the beating of your heart when you answer this next question for me.”
She extended her hand and the old babalao took it between his.
“Now, tell me, why did you poison Dr. Casals?”
Elodia’s face froze for an instant, then hardened. She was quiet for a bit, as if she was asking herself the question for the first time and was searching out her brain for an answer. Then she began to speak, very slowly, so that Gaytán could follow what she said by watching her lips move.
“I had to do it, Godfather! He was going to leave me. He told me to stop going to his room. Do you understand what I mean? Ever since I was a little girl, I’d been getting in his bed with him as soon as his wife left for work. He showed me everything I had to do…Now he wanted the cook’s daughter, who was younger than me…I consulted a santera who threw the coconut shells for me and it came out Eyife, and she said that the orishas told her that we shouldn’t ask about what we already know—that I knew very well what I had to do!”
In other circumstances, Gaytán might have consulted his ípkuele. But he was too old, he’d lost the faith to blindly follow the oracle’s dictates. He felt that his Eternal Father had been filling his heart with doubt even as his mind got wiser—though in the end, mankind can never be God.
He stayed like that a long while, just staring at the four coconut pieces he’d been shaping to use in divination as Elodia told him her troubles. It was from that prodigious fruit that the most effective way to talk to the gods had developed, the best way to ask concrete questions and receive blunt answers. Now he had to ask what to do with Elodia, and he was well aware that this time he could not fail.
He took the four pieces in his hands. He said a brief and silent prayer, and threw the pieces of coconut on the yarey mat in front of him. Two faced down and two faced up. Eyife! The clearest of all the coconut oracle’s letters. An unquestionable yes: You do not ask about what you already know.
“Listen to this, my dear. Oyá, your real mother, says she left you years ago in care of Yewá because it had to be that way,” Gaytán explained. “You have been very good and as a result she will take care of you from now on. But she asks that you not consult her about what to do with this new life she offers you. You need to decide for yourself, and to answer before mankind for whatever it is you do.”
Translation by Achy Obejas
1
An olúo is the highest level that can be achieved by a babalao, or babalawo (both forms are acceptable). The only hierarchy that exists in the Rule of Osha (also spelled Ocha) is the Order of Babalaos, who are children of Orula (also known as Ifá), god of divination.
2
In Santería, godchildren are those sponsored in the rituals by particular santeros or babalaos—godfathers or godmothers.
3
A tablet and necklace used for divination.
4
Olokun is a very mysterious deity who reigns over the bottom of the sea. “Giving to Olokun” is usually recommended by babalaos, not santeros or diviners, and only when a person is on the brink of death.
T
he rodents are relentless; they’ve been feasting on me for days. Everything hurts inside; I feel close to death, which is good news now. I’m sick of living. I could have had a happy childhood, like anyone else, but it’s not easy to carry the burden of dishonor. My soul weighs on me because I’ve been left alone. Papá and Mamá are not here anymore; they’ve gone on to a better place. I’m in agony but…I laugh.
They think I’m going to give them the satisfaction of pleading for a quick death instead of wasting away from the infected bites from the giant rats that share this stinking cell with me. Oh, how wrong they are! If I cling to this damn existence it’s to pass on the story of my life (even if it’s only to these walls) and how I turned into a killer. Nothing could have been further from my mind, but even killing can seem necessary when life deals us a bad hand. For sure, no one I killed was innocent. Whoever has died by my hand was paying for their sins. Everyone I got rid of had murdered, stolen, snitched, hurt, betrayed, and persecuted. This should be clear.
For what it’s worth, here’s my story…
Cojímar is a tiny town just north of Guanabacoa, which borders Havana to the east. It’s more a neighborhood than a town, although at the time of this story it was home to about 8,000 residents. Cojímar has a beautiful beach and a tiny port which bears the same name. Before the Revolution, it had an active trade in all sorts of supplies—liquor, hardware, and other miscellaneous items. There were clothing stores, shoe stores, and places to buy perfume, jewelry, etc. We had drugstores where we could get any kind of medicine and a druggist who thought he was as qualifled as a doctor when it came to filling prescriptions; he’d write the script himself without ever worrying about being wrong.
There is a church, Nuestra Señora del Carmen, named after the town’s patron saint. Her feast is held in July, in splendid weather. The Cojímar River, as beautiful as it is tranquil, empties out to the bay. Right off the port, there’s a fort called El Torreón. It was built in the seventeenth century, then destroyed by the British almost a hundred years later, then restored. It’s the only thing at the port, a huge block of stone looking out at the waters.
The story goes that the town arose from the workers who came to build it, and that before that, there were only indigenous here. I have fond memories of the place because my father would often take me strolling to the port and we’d pause in front of it. Pointing with his index finger, he’d whisper: “Freedom.”
Freedom
, for those in the Cuban-Chinese community, is a sacred word.
When the Revolution triumphed, Papá was a prosperous merchant. Soon thereafter, private businesses were integrated by the government and folks who resisted indoctrination, and those who chose not to join the vulgar crowds, were persecuted. One night when I couldn’t get to sleep, I heard a heated argument between my parents, although back then I couldn’t understand what they were talking about. It wasn’t the first time, the argument actually repeated itself frequently, and none of the three of us could get any rest, although they never knew I was eavesdropping on them. My father and various other Chinese businessmen were preparing to escape by boat behind the backs of the government dupes. The idea was to flee to the United States with whatever they could get off the island. Of course, the treasure was considerable; we Chinese are a hardworking people and know how to manage things. We’ve shown that everywhere we’ve ever emigrated.
Since it was a fairly dangerous proposition, not exempt from tragedy, all the conspirators had decided to talk to their spouses and explain that they needed to stay on the island with their children until the men could get to the United States and file legal claims to bring them over. As my mother later told me, she was anguished because she didn’t want to break up the family, even if just temporarily. But Papá convinced her in the end. Well, Papá and the circumstances.
Things got tighter every day, and life got tougher for those who didn’t accept the commander-in-chief’s wild whims. That’s why my mother finally gave in.
But the escape didn’t work out. The coast guard surprised them and they were machine-gunned without mercy when the government’s henchmen ordered them to stop and they refused. My father’s death was a hard knock, though the actual killings weren’t enough for the Communists. They brought the bodies back and laid them at the foot of the imposing Torreón, which my father had so loved. They left them strewn there for twenty-four hours, so that all of Cojímar would learn the lesson. I saw it all; so did my mother.
From that day on, at eleven years of age, I began planning my revenge.
The first thing I did was start to act abnormally. Some people lose their minds after a devastating emotional shock, so no one was really surprised when the Wongs’ only son started behaving oddly. The neighbors would see me in all my foolishness. Some called me an idiot, others a silly little Chinese boy; most of the time, they’d try to reason with me, but I would fake them out with a blank look and a dazed smile. The crueler among them would engage me in mischief and then turn me in; it was never anything serious, just kid stuff.
Once all of Cojímar had me tagged as the neighborhood’s official cretin, I started to cultivate effeminate mannerisms and pretend to be disabled. When puberty arrived, I stopped being the silly Chinese boy and became the little Chinese faggot. All this was fine by me because I wanted to be seen as a completely defenseless creature.
The next step was to locate and study each and every person who had taken part in the massacre. The most dangerous of those responsible was Captain Correa, who everyone called
Pirigua
(I’ll never know why). Pirigua was a forty-something man, short but sinewy. He drank too much, especially rum, and smoked cigars, helping to project his stereotypical rebel image. He always wore the olive-green uniform of the hated Territorial Militia, wrinkled and marked by sweat stains under his arms, his chest, and knees. Just like every other militia guy I knew, he had a beard and a mustache. Pirigua’s men were cut from the same mold, and they all tried to copy him; Correa, for his party, tried desperately to be the Maximum Leader’s clone.
After the murders, Pirigua became the town’s master. He didn’t hesitate before harassing the widows of those he’d killed, especially those he found most attractive. Unfortunately, my mother was one of these and he was soon installed in my house. My resentment grew by the day…If he’d only known how many times I fantasized about cutting his throat as he snored and slept soundly in my parents’ bed, he would have died from fright. But I knew that if I did it, that’s as far as I would get. The others would outlive my revenge. So I stoically tolerated everything he did to my mother. She hated him as much, or even more, than I did, but played along because of me, because Pirigua never tired of threatening with all he’d do to me if my mother didn’t accept his passions (even if it was reluctantly). So that was our situation.
As time went by, my plans for revenge began to take shape, and once I had it clear in my own head, I started preparing to act on it. The hardest part was getting everybody accustomed to seeing me shovel dirt in a wagon and then run from one end of town to the other with it, making like I was playing at being a construction worker. Initially, I got stopped a few times and they took me down to the town jail, because they were sure I was up to some mischief, but my mother always intervened with Captain Correa and he finally ordered everybody to leave me alone. After all, I was not normal, there was no malice in anything I might do, and my atrophied brain really wasn’t up for delinquent activities. Pirigua’s men left me in peace and I spent the livelong day pushing that wagon full of dirt from one place to another. I always did it around the port, in a fairly orderly fashion that didn’t cause anyone any inconveniences.
What seemed like sheer idiocy to everyone in town was actually quite useful to me. For starters, it made me stronger. I began to develop muscles that, quite frankly, were rather rare for a boy my age. But it also made the militia completely indifferent to my presence, so that eventually none of Captain Correa’s men even looked at me as I went from one place to another with my wagon full of dirt. Whenever anybody stopped to make fun of me, I’d just look at them stupidly and say, “I’m a little Chinese construction worker!” They’d laugh and then let me be. After all, the little foolish Chinese boy was harmless.
Pirigua continued his visits, and when his drunkenness would render him unconscious on the bed, and my mother would run to the bathroom to wash her body and spirit of that jerk’s residue, I’d sit by the bed and contemplate Captain Correa, thinking about all the things I’d do to him when the moment came. Although it may seem unbelievable, this gave me strength to continue with my plans for revenge, because I knew I could keep control of the situation. There was the pig, snoring effortlessly and without an ounce of strength to put up a fight if I picked up a kitchen knife and decided to dismember him alive.
Assimilating that power was addictive, and stimulating. Besides, one thing I’d learned from my father, before the tragedy, was that to put a plan in play, it was best to “see” it first through the prism of the imagination. So, as I sat at the captain’s side while he snored, I’d “see” exactly how I was going to cut him up into little pieces, and how he could do nothing to stop me, just as helpless as my father and his friends had been to stop the militia from gunning them down.
When I killed the first guy and buried him at night, near the port, no one found out. They had no idea that I’d strolled with the dismembered body buried in the mound of dirt in my wagon right under their noses. Who was going to suspect a foolish Chinese faggot? That’s how rumors began to spread that there was a curse on Cojímar. Most people in the know, those who weren’t all that superstitious (like Captain Correa and his remaining henchmen), knew, or believed they knew, that the curse was pure myth…Those “disappeared” militia, the henchmen said, had fled for Miami. The misery they were enduring under the Communist system was pushing them to leave the country and turn their backs on the dictatorship. But neither Correa nor any of the others ever said this publicly; I only knew about it because of some confidences he shared with my mother.
My mother was nobody’s fool, and I’m sure she soon suspected the truth, though she never said a word. I would surprise her sometimes while she was gazing at me; when I’d turn to her and smile with that beatific expression I’d developed as an organic mask, she’d smile too, and something would filter between us without a need to speak directly. That ethereal thread of silent complicity brought us closer together and gave us strength. Mamá understood then that keeping Correa happy was a fundamental part of the game, because it gave her a certain power over him (the most feared man in Cojímar) that we would not otherwise have. And she also understood that this power she had, if used astutely and subtly, could save our lives. That’s why it was such an important part of my plan to keep Pirigua alive until the very end; although that was a hard bargain with myself, for sure. To cope with the situation, I’d imagine Captain Correa like that pig you fatten all year in order to slaughter it at Christmas.
One evening, I noticed my mother was acting different, irritated. Pirigua had taken a trip outside Cojímar for reasons I didn’t know and so we had more space to ourselves. I sat down in the corner of the living room and watched her pace from one end to the other, wringing her hands. I didn’t ask what was going on, but I did smile at her, the same as always, and my eyes invited her to share her torments with me.
She finally decided to let me in on her thoughts, but in keeping with the style we’d established of communicating without talking directly. Mamá approached me and held my hand.
“Come with me, son. Let’s take a little stroll, like when you were younger and your father would take you down to the port.”
She didn’t need to say anything more. Her restlessness had everything to do with our tragedy and revenge. Papá, the port, the walks that always ended up at El Torreón, where my father would pause and point and whisper (with an intense light in his eyes) the word
freedom
.
I let myself follow her. Mamá took note of the calluses on my hands, the result of the constant back and forth with the weighty wagon, and she caressed me very tenderly, as if with that gesture she could make me understand that she was giving silent assent to my activities. Real Street was deserted, weirdly deserted, as if everybody was hiding from some terrible monster let loose in the neighborhood, looking for someone to devour. Fear floated in the air. In those days, the government wouldn’t stop yakking about a fictitious yanqui invasion which never materialized but which kept everybody on their toes and distracted from the country’s real problems—things like the lack of food, censorship, the total denial of human rights…Actually, why go on? It was always better to blame yanqui imperialism. And the yanquis were coming soon (or so they said)…Fatherland or death and all that.
We arrived at the Port of Cojímar without being bothered, since the days when people made fun of me were now in the past; I had become something of an invisible person, no longer a novelty. We walked holding hands without making any stops until we had circled the port, then went back to Real Street. The afternoon became night. My mother guided me toward El Torreón and I knew in an instant that I needed to sharpen my senses and pay close attention to whatever she said or did, whatever she revealed that was roiling inside her.
“Remember how much your father loved this place?” she asked without waiting for a reply. “Do you know why? In a boat not far from here, the first Chinese arrived in Cuba. They left from a port called Amoy, in the south of China, in the 1840s. The ship was called the
Oquendo
, it was a Spanish brigantine. The English ruled our land then, and they’d taken it upon themselves to repress our collective spirit, and to addict Chinese youth to opium. Those first exiles that came to Cuba did so under horrendous labor contracts, practically slaves, just like black people.”
