Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (25 page)

“Well compañera, you do know that your uncle…you
know who, right? The one who gives all the orders around here…that he’s just doing this because it suits him, right?”

As he referred to our one and only
comandante-en-jefe
, the absurd little man gestured with one hand as if stroking an invisible beard, that silent but universal reference to uncle Fidel.

“Suits him how?” I asked.

“Do you need to ask?” the man fired back. “Certainly you don’t think he’s opened up the floodgates because of his generosity, do you? Because he feels bad for all the unhappy citizens he’s created?”

“Of course, not" I fired back myself, defensive but determined. "He’s doing this because he can’t stop us. Because this time the forces working against him are too powerful and the whole world is bearing witnesss to it, that’s why.”

The
chofer
shook his bald head and laughed uproariously in his abnormally deep voice, trying to make eye contact with me in the rear view mirror.

“Don’t be naïve, compañera, don’t be so innocent. He’s doing this because it creates a humongous problem for the Americans, because it forces them back to the negotiating table, that’s why.”

“Negotiating table? What negotiating table?”

“The negotiating table of immigration talks, compañera.
That
negotiating table.”

“And how do you know this?” I pressed.

“Let’s just say I have it under very good authority, compañera.”

I settled down again in the back of that vehicle, but dumbstruck and deflated. I couldn’t reply. Rigo sensed my churning unease because now he jumped in for me.

"That’s Fidel for you,” he said. “Never passes up an opportunity when he sees one.”

“You know that your uncle is no fool," the driver continued, stroking that imaginary beard once more. “Didn’t you hear him the other night on television? The veiled threat he made. What better way to force the Americans to bend to his will than by unleashing another exodus? Right now this is a mini-Mariel, but left alone, it could easily eclipse it.”

I felt more and more disheartened as the absurd little man babbled on. The more he spewed his hot air, the more deflated I felt.

"What are you saying then?” I began. “Are you saying he planned this all from the start? This incident I’ve regarded as a miracle?”

"Well, I wouldn't go that far, compañera. He’s not that ingenious. But your uncle definitely knows how to work things to his advantage. Didn’t he do the same thing with Mariel? Wasn’t Mariel a genuine revolt until he realized he too could make his move and clean house? Didn’t he take advantage by emptying out his jails and mental hospitals?”

“So that’s who’s leaving now?” I asked flabergasted. “Convicts and mental patients? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, compañera, I’m not. But who knows? Who really knows? I think that if everyone were completely honest, they would admit that, in order to do what they’re doing—what you two are about to do—you have to be a little crazy, wouldn’t you? Be honest now. Risking your life at sea. Leaving behind everything you know and love. Everybody accuses Fidel of being old and crazy and blames him for Cuba being a mess. But Fidel is not to blame.
We
are. We Cubans are to blame. He’s just an orchestra leader conducting this socialist symphony. He’s just a chef preparing a major meal. You have to hand it to him. He always knows just when to remove the valve from that pressure cooker, doesn’t he? He always knows exactly when to let the steam out.”

There, in the backseat of that car, Rigo and I turned and faced each other to assume the obivous: this absurd little man
was
an agent of the state, he had to be. For the ensuing moments that followed, his words hung thick in our faces,
their stifling force sucking out all the oxygen. We sat there deprived of all air until Rigo’s voice pierced through the silence, but in a manner totally unlike him.

“Well,” my husband began, “the whole damned thing can explode in his old, fucking face for all I care. Another thing, compañero: as far as that meal goes that our uncle is preparing, as you say, well, it’s already been served, and it tastes like shit—pure shit! Who knows? Maybe we are crazy, as you suggest. But at least we’re not cowards. You need courage to do what we’re doing. Real courage. Just like the kid who threw the rock at the Deauville last week and made this all possible. That took more than cojones, and I will admire and respect that kid for the rest of my life.”

“Oh no, compañero. I beg to differ. I couldn’t disagree more. That was definitely crazy what that kid did last week, very stupid, actually.”

"Oh yeah?” said Rigo. “And why is that?”

"Why?” the man posed rhetorically. “Haven’t you been seeing the news reports lately? Haven’t you been reading
el Granma?
”

“No,” we both said in unison.

“Of course you haven’t,” retorted the bald little man. “How could you? You’ve been too busy getting ready for your trip. Well, they’ve got security images of the guy getting ready to throw another rock and they've been showing his picture in the paper and on TV. They're looking for him and anyone who helped him."

"Anyone who helped him?" Rigo asked.

"Yes, and believe me, I have it under good authority that when they find these guys—and they will—they're going to have a lot of time on their hands to think about what they did."

“Well, hopefully they’ll never find him. Hopefully he’s already escaped. Maybe he’ll be in Cojimar this morning getting ready to push off.”

Once again, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What in
the world had gotten into Rigo? If I was the one usually running off at the mouth, there was no catching up to that loose tongue of his this morning.

“And that’s one of the reasons why you’re going to be seeing so many policemen along the shore this morning. They’re determined to catch him if he tries to escape. See what I mean?” he pointed. “Look over there!”

Rigo and I looked to our left, in the direction of his pointing finger. The prevalent color of blue stretched out like a dragnet: the blue of uniform, the blue of the mongrels. They were everywhere, it seemed, forming their own sea of blue.

More important, we had finally reached Cojimar.

“Where shall I drop you off?” the driver asked.

“Hemingway’s bust,” I said. “Do you know where that is?”

“Coño, who doesn’t know where that is?” he asked. “It’s right over there.”

The narcissist pointed to the modest, yet respectable, monument that the town of Cojimar had erected in Hemingway’s honor: a bust of him housed within a gazebo. It stood right across from the Spanish fort at the entrance of the harbor. The Malecón of Cojimar was tiny compared to Havana’s, so we reached the monument in no time.

“This will do,” Rigo said, taking charge. “You can drop us off right here.”

I promptly stepped out of the taxi while Rigo thanked the absurd little man and paid him. I could barely bring myself to say good-bye, much less thank him. I could think only of saying good riddance. But he was a leech that would not let go.

“Compañera,” he began. “Just one question, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s that?” I asked, weary and exasperated.

“That sister of yours, the one who wanted to accompany you this morning. How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Oh well…”

“Why, compañero? How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Thirty-six!” I declared.

“Yes, now tell me, from a woman’s point of view, do you think thirty-six is too old for sixteen?”

“No compañero, not too old.
Ridiculously
too old!”

He fell silent and nodded erratically, almost talking to himself.

“That’s what I thought,” he replied. “That’s what I thought. Well, what about the other sister then? The one with the weird eyes.”

“She’s twenty-three, compañero, and she’s got a boyfriend. She’s also blind, that’s why the weird eyes.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well listen, good luck to you both and be real careful out there. The sea looks kind of rough this morning, much rougher than it’s been all week. Not only that, I hear that in the last couple days a few corpses have washed up to shore. But don’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll be rescued long before you know it.”

He went to shake Rigo’s hand before driving off, but my husband, so full of surprises this morning, unleashed one nagging question.

“How about you, compadre?” Rigo began. “Think you might be interested in leaving at all? In joining the exodus from here in Cojimar?”

“Me, compañero? Me? Why do you ask?”

“You must be frustrated, compadre, terribly frustrated. You’re a Técnico Medio in Artes Plásticas, yet you have to drive a taxi in order to put food on the table. I can’t think of a worse consolation.”

But the absurd little man smiled and looked at Rigo with that half-crazed expression in his eyes. He would not be
outdone, and he had the goods to prove it.

“Oh no, compañero, you shouldn’t make such assumptions, not at all. I’m perfectly fine with my position, perfectly happy. You see these jeans I’ve got on?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Rigo.

“They’re Jordache. Not even Levis, but Jordache. And you see this shirt?” he posed again.

“Yes,” repeated Rigo.

“It’s Calvin Klein, chico,
Calvin Klein!
” he repeated. “The very best there is. All due to this job I have as a driver and the tourists who support me—I mean, my clients who care for me very much. No, compañero, I’m perfectly content,” he added. “But remember what I told you now. Be real careful out there, real careful. The sea can turn on you in an instant, so it’s always best to assume the worst, always! It’s the only way to maintain control!”

With that, he was off! He slunk back into his taxi and drove away. I was a knot of nerves and couldn’t think straight. Not as I caught sight of him for the last time, his dark blue jeans and Calvin Klein shirt, his balding head with its dull sheen glowing in the distance; meanwhile, Rigo and I were left to fend for ourselves within the curious scene unfolding along the waterfront.

The little sea village of Cojimar, just an extension of the eastern portion of Havana. I didn’t know what to anticipate, what I would see or hear. Maybe family members making a last-ditch effort with some pleas and sobs, with hysterics even; maybe friends or neighbors who had come to say goodbye and offer well wishes to loved ones. More than anything, I expected an air of solemnity over the whole affair, a mournful silence draped over the canvas of this coast. Hardly. There was hardly anything mournful or melancholy about any aspect of the gathering here.

Sure, there were tearful good-byes and tight overwrought embraces. But the clamorous scene along the calm blue waters of Cojimar was not one of despondence or gloom. It was
festive and brewing with energy. It seemed like carnaval time in Havana, as if these processions along sand and shore were the only
carnavales
being celebrated this year, these homemade rafts replacing the traditional floats. The floats of Cojimar were not the fancy flashing spectacles of a parade. They were the floats of some farcical fleet; a fleeing armada of vulnerable vessels, and where the most prevalent common denominator was the lowly everyday inner tube.

Inner tubes.
Everywhere!
Some inner tubes were single and solitary, their riders determined to make the voyage alone. But most inner tubes had been leashed like dogs, strung together in groups of two or three or even four or more; tied and fastened, saddled and harnessed for all their strength and might. Some had wooden planks; others had whatever floatable surface could be scrounged up; still others had material highly suspect—like ours, the only vessel woven together with stalks of sugarcane and maloja. All had been strapped like oxen to a cart, like chariots onto horses expected to gallop across the water. But this was one horse you could not whip to go faster or needle to giddyap. Not lest it pop or deflate or collapse under your weight and desert you in a watery grave. Some of these floating creations looked fortified and reinforced. Others appeared flimsy and precariously strung together. All came to life with the aid of the everyday inner tube—no longer a lowly object of disregard, but a true life-saver, a lasting friend.

And where did all these inner tubes mysteriously come from? This overabundance. During this Special Period we had shortages of everything in Cuba—food, energy, clothing—but certainly no shortage of inner tubes, the one item that needed no rationing, along with Chinese bicycles. Why was it that, suddenly, when a Cuban needed an inner tube, there were more than plenty to be found?

No, there was no shortage of these life-savers, just as there was no shortage of takers. As for the decorations on these floats or their visual themes, it was not pretty young girls or carnival queens who danced atop them. Thin young men adorned these vessels: stern-looking, hungry, fearless and
brazen Cubans with a fierceness in their eyes and an angry intensity in their gaze.
Cojimar
. The town would forever be tied to the water. It was the setting for Ernest Hemingway’s
The Old Man and the Sea
. Papa Hemingway had even docked his boat here. It remained a tiny fishing village of modest wood and concrete homes perched on a hill that overlooked a bay. But now, in this next chapter of the town’s seafaring history, it was the launching point of Cuba’s current exodus, later to be dubbed
El Crisis de los Balseros
.

I had only been to Cojimar once in my life, when I was twelve. My father had come here to conduct research and said we could make a family vacation out of it. He was writing a paper on the migratory patterns and language of the Cimmerians of Crimea: an ancient nomadic people now extinct and who were believed to have dwelled in perpetual darkness. Evidence suggested that, even though the Cimmerians had eventually settled as far north as South Russia, Asia Minor, and along the Black Sea, originally they had been colonists of Atlantis before it sank into the ocean.

And while it was generally believed that most of the Cimmerians who survived that cataclysm migrated to Northern and Western Europe, my father suggested in his paper that an offshoot of the group had headed south, never to be heard from or seen again. The Cimmerians who made it to the European continent went on to engage in centuries of warfare and conquests with rival groups; thus were they eventually expelled and driven out of Europe because of their affinity to the darkness. These embattled Cimmerians decided to head south this time, just as that small offshoot of their ancestors had done centuries prior. My father’s research indicated that, sometime in the fifth century, this bellicose faction reached Cuba and modern-day Cubans were actually direct descendants of theirs. The newly arrived nomads happened to settle in Cojimar and the word Cojimar itself was a variation of the word Crimea, named after the Cimmerians.