Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (17 page)

“Now do you believe me, Clara? Now that you’ve failed to catch my reflection?”

“Why is that?” I asked. “Why?”

“Very simple, Clara. You’re made of dust, I’m made of air. And air, Clara, does not reflect.”

“But please!” I persisted. “I don’t think the Heavenly Father has thought this through. I mean, let’s just say I take your word for it, that I’ve got Jewish blood and all; well, I’m still Cuban. Why would He choose a Cuban woman for a task such as this? Why not an American woman? A European woman? I mean, look at me. Look at my drab clothes and my dreary appearance. Look at this crumbling street I live on. All the buildings are decaying. Everything is deteriorating or falling to the ground. Why, the whole country is collapsing. How can any child of God be born in a place such as this? In circumstances such as these!”

“What about the Messiah?” the Messenger said. “Wasn’t the Messiah born in a manger? If you think Cuba is bad, you should have seen Judea in those days—now
that
was bad. At least Cuba has one of the best healthcare systems in the world.”

“But Cuba?” I asked. “Why would He choose Cuba? Why?”

“I can’t be absolutely sure, Clara, but I know the Father
has a real soft spot for Cuba. He vacations here every year.”

“Stop this!” I said. “This has gone far enough!”

“He does, Clara. Every spring, when it’s not too hot.”

“Varadero, I suppose?”

“No, Varadero is so passé. Santa Lucía, off the northern coast of Camagüey. His favorite beach in all creation, Clara.”

“Santa Lucía? Why, that’s where Rigo was supposed to…” my voice trailed off again.

“Design those luxury hotels? Yes, we know all about that.”

I shook my head in earnest again, my thoughts throbbing in a dull disbelief.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Absolutely absurd. Standing here and having a conversation with the Angel Gabriel about the Creator vacationing in Cuba. I know now this is a silly dream.”

“And why is that, Clara? Explain it to me. Didn’t He rest on the seventh day after He created the world? What’s the matter with you, chica? Don’t you think the Creator is entitled to some rest and relaxation? I mean, 24-6 He’s with everyone all the time! And I mean
all the time
. Nobody ever leaves the poor Guy alone, Clara!”

I wanted to laugh again, really I did. I no longer felt this encounter bore the markings of some delirious dream. It bordered on the ridiculous, on the absurd. At any moment I expected a group of people to come out of hiding and start yelling “Surprise!” This had to be some intricately staged stunt with special effects and all.

“All right,” I said. “All right. Tell me this is all a joke, a clever practical joke. Tell me that Rigo is even in on it. It’s all been very funny, hilarious even, but it’s not going to work. This stunt smacks of Mihrta, but it will not dissuade us from leaving.”

Just then the angel’s demeanor changed dramatically and I felt something familiar: those vibrations, those shockwaves throbbing and bouncing off my body again. I felt the
whiteness of the flames leaping toward me, and he was no longer a messenger, but a sentinel, one of Heaven’s stern-faced guards.

“This is not funny, Clara! And it’s no joke! I can assure you that this is a very serious matter. I repeat, you must not take that trip tomorrow! I’m starting to lose my patience now. When I leave here tonight, the Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore, also, that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called Luz, Daughter of God. For behold that even though you and your husband have been trying to have a child and were told by learned men you would never bear children, that is no longer the case. For with God nothing shall be impossible—nothing!”

I didn’t make a sound, and the angel stood perfectly still after so adamant a declaration, his right hand lifted up and pointing outward. He peered straight at me as I’d never been looked at before. I thought I might melt from so caustic a gaze. Did he know what he looked like? Had he ever seen himself at all? Maybe his reflection could be captured in one place: the human eye. I didn’t know whether to respond or not, whether to look at him or not, but I felt my opposition starting to wane. Maybe from all the seriousness. Maybe from the authority in his voice. Or maybe going along with the pretense would force this dream to fade all the sooner.

“Fine,” I conceded. “I believe you, I believe all this. But I’m still leaving tomorrow. My daughter can be born in the United States.”

“No, Clara!” the messenger stated emphatically. “Your daughter must be born in Cuba! She will not be safe anywhere else, especially in the United States.”

“But the United States is the safest country in the world,” I said. “The safest place in the world.”

“Do you remember King Herod, Clara? Do you remember when the Messiah was born how King Herod wanted to…”

“King who?” I interjected.

“Oh, just forget it, Clara. You really don’t know the Bible, do you? Now look, all I know is what I’ve been told. Remember, I’m a messenger and my orders come from you know
Whom
. You must have the child in Cuba, and it must be raised in Cuba—those are the orders!”

“But what about Rigo?” I pleaded. “What about Amalia and Henry? We just finished firming up the plans for tomorrow. I can’t ruin the trip for them. What shall I say? What shall I do?”

“What shall you do, Clara? You shall obey the word of God, the Father—your Heavenly Father—that’s what you shall do! For your future is no longer in your hands. You have been chosen to fulfill a destiny far greater than your own, and you must submit to it! Now, silence, Clara! You’re fortunate I don't strike you dumb the way I did Zechariah when he refused to believe Elizabeth would bear him a child. Unfortunately, I was not granted the authority for such measures at this time, but I wish I had been. Now go and rejoice, Clara, for you are going to be a mother! You are going to bear a child who will change the course of history and the entire world once again!”

“Rejoice?” I said. “You think this is something to rejoice about?”

“Of course it is, Clara! Go and rejoice, for I must take my leave. Oh, and one other thing before I go, so you won’t have to keep doubting the veracity of this encounter or think it all a dream.”

“What?” I asked.

“Look at the clock and tell me the time.”

I walked over to the night table and looked at the alarm clock as instructed.

“Ten-thirty," I said in surprise. "But how is that possible? It was ten-twenty when I got home, ten-thirty as I was falling asleep, and it feels as if you’ve been here for hours.”

“I’ll tell you why it’s possible, Clara. When I, the Angel Gabriel, Heaven’s chief operating messenger, delivers a
divine message from above, it’s done in celestial time, not earthly time. That’s the mode we’re in right now, Clara: celestial time. This visit will barely register as microseconds on the clock of eternity, milliseconds at most. That’s why, to you—and your husband—it’s only ten-thirty still.”

I didn’t know why, but I suddenly thought of my family again. Maybe my thoughts had been trapped in some other sphere of time, neither earthly or celestial.

“Where are my mother and sisters?” I asked. “They’re all right, aren’t they? You know that my older sister is—"

“Yes, Clara, we know. But don’t worry, they’re perfectly fine. Todo bien. One of my underlings is keeping close watch over them.”

“Underlings? A guardian angel, I presume.”

“No, Clara. We don’t go by that term these days. Security, that’s what we call it now—security.”

“you really are up to date, aren’t you?”

“Yes Clara, and one more thing before I go. Speaking of your mother, when you finally see her, tell the woman not to waste any more time with what she did tonight."

"Visiting a great aunt?” I asked.

"If that were all she had done,” the messenger said. “No, tell her not to mess with the occult anymore!.”

“The occult? You must be mistaken. My mother is a very religious woman. She would never have anything to do with the occult.”

“Your mother is an obstinate, strong-willed woman who always wants to get her way, Clara. I wonder who she passed that on to? Now, if you’ll excuse me, mija, I need to get going. Just tell her to stay away from the occult. Oh, and one other thing: those bands of black and charcoal and ashen gray and all those swirls of white and silver and vanilla you saw along the Malecón tonight—that was me, chica, making my way down. Now, good-bye, Clara. It’s time for me to make my way up.”

They finally started moving, finally initiated their ascent, the two majestic masses emanating from behind his body, those bronze-tinged wings. Upon his arrival I had not even noticed them, but now they began to flutter and flame and emit their shockwaves as they stretched and extended.

“Wait!” I called out. “I need to know something.”

“
¡Dios mio, chica!
You know, Clara, yours is not the only message I’m delivering tonight. I’ve got plenty more, even in terms of celestial time.”

“Why is this happening? Why does the Heavenly Father want to have another child after so long, especially a daughter? Why not another son?”

“He already has a son, Clara. His one and only son, remember? That’s also in the Bible. But trust me, mija, you don’t want to know why or get involved in the middle of that.”

“Of course I want to know why,” the critic in me pressed.

“No, Clara, you don’t. For one thing, it would take an entire millennium to explain—and this time I do mean celestial time, eternal time even. Just do yourself a favor and stay out of it. Don’t get in the middle of that. Just keep out of that part of things—the
why
of it—and this matter will run much more smoothly. As it is—and this is strictly between you and me, chica—I envision this all turning into one giant mess. But that’s just my humble opinion. Who am I to say anything? I’m just the messenger, remember. Good-bye now, Clara.”

“Wait!” I interjected again. “What happens if I have any questions? Any concerns? Will I ever see you again? Will you ever come back?”

His entire being reverberated now, and those masses behind his back were no longer wings, but waves. They did not flutter or flap or extend as ordinary wings, but pulsated and throbbed. They were giant waves rising from the sea of his back, swelling and expanding in some rhythmic resonance that radiated warmth and resplendence.

“I’m not a guidance counselor, Clara. You‘ll have to figure it out on your own, just like everyone else. But you’re a big girl. Rely on your faith, as you’re supposed to do.”

He must have seen the disappointment on my face. Not only because I suddenly felt I was getting a host of mixed messages from him, but because he was leaving. The messenger must have sensed I had grown fond of him despite only milliseconds together.

“Well, Clara, you never know,” he added. “It all depends on you know
Whom
. Many of my assignments come at the last moment. Even I don’t know what they’re going to be. Think of it as security, chica, a sign of the times.”

If I thought I had captured just a glint of emotion for the one and only time tonight—just the slightest hint of a smile—there was no question the messenger had completed his task, for in my room there was no longer a luminescence, but an evanescence. Off he was without another word, vanishing from my presence and leaving the house in a flurry of light and wind and water and leaving me to ponder, if not the why of things, then certainly my fate.

This time I did not pace the room in renewed solitude, but neither did I simply remain in a state of shock. I immediately looked at the alarm clock just as I had done before falling asleep.
Ten-thirty
. I looked and blinked and stared intently, but sure enough, ten-thirty the hands on the clock insisted on it being.
Ten-thirty earth time!
But how? Had the messenger not even been here one whole minute? Not even a full sixty seconds? It couldn’t be. This visit, this visitation, it had felt like hours. Not a minute, but several hours. Also, it may have only been ten-thirty, but it was very late for no one to be home yet, especially Mamá and my sisters. If I suspected something wrong, especially after this admonition about the occult, I put my worries aside, possessing the peace of mind now that they were fine and secure. As for Rigo, that was another story.

“¡Dios mío!” What would I say? Rigo would think me crazy, insane. After hounding him for three days straight
about leaving Cuba, how could I tell him I had changed my mind? It was inconceivable. How could I possibly do an about-face? How could I demand we call the whole thing off after the speedboat of my supplications had finally split open the vessel of his resistance?

I wouldn’t do it. I would put a halt to this. I wouldn’t waste any time or energy worrying about this either. This had all been a crazy dream, and the moment someone came home, I would wake up and banish it all from my mind, this dusk of derangement, this period of partial paranoia. For now I just wanted to lie down and rest. I felt spent like never before and could fight the exhaustion no longer.

Dejectedly, I walked over to my dresser. I went to blow out all six candles, but one remained lit. I blew it out and gathered up the prayer cards. I clutched them tightly in my hand and pressed them firmly against my chest. I didn’t know how I would manage it, but I’d get one of the messenger, embargo or not. And I didn’t know how, but I’d shake this delirium off as well. I just needed to clear my thoughts before I came crashing into consciousness. Yet if I foolishly believed I could finally rest, the most peculiar occurrence of the evening was yet to happen, the strangest visitation of all.

I finally lay down, but was no longer clutching those prayer cards, no longer able to. An intoxicating drowsiness demanded my defeat when, almost immediately, I began seeing shadows. I didn’t see how this could be possible: shadows without any light. I also felt a pressure bearing down on my body, pressing in from both sides and causing me to curl up in pain. I felt hot too. Not only along my forehead, but across the length of my entire body, trapping me in some invisible, whispery fire. It reminded me of the year before when I got sick. A fever was whipping itself into another searing affliction, and I turned violently from side to side and thrashed about in my bed. If I wanted my body to cool down for just a moment, my mind wasted no time in racing to the sights and sounds that visit us in a feverish state.