Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (27 page)

“Clara,” he began calmly. “It’s all right, chica. I can assure you our vessel is going to be just fine; it won’t sink. The only reason there might a problem is if the weight is unbalanced. You know that it needs four people on it to float safely, don’t you?”

“Yes, Henry. I know that. And I’m sorry, chico, but you’re going to have to find two other people to go in our place,
¿verdad Rigo?
”

Another round of silence, much sharper silence, punctuated now by a clash of confusion and recrimination and total astonishment. The clamor and commotion of Cojimar kept feeding a steady stream of rafters answering the lure of the sea, but the silence enshrouding Rigo and Amalia and Henry only served to starve my companions of any hope. They stared hungrily at me as any notion of this being a joke clearly evaporated.

“Why are you doing this, Clara?” Rigo asked. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, amor, I’m sorry. But look around you and see what’s happening here? Why are we doing this? Why are we letting him get away with this?”

“Letting
who
get away with
what
?” Amalia shot out. “What are you talking about, Clara?”

“Letting Fidel get away with it, that’s who.”

Amalia volleyed back, this time injecting a sharp venom in her tone that threw me off guard.

“Fidel? Are you crazy, Clara? We’re not letting Fidel get away with anything. He’s the one letting
us
get away! He’s the one allowing this to happen, remember?”

“Yes! And why? Why is that?”

“Who cares why, chica? What does that matter as long as it’s happening?”

“It matters a lot,” I replied. “For over a week now, ever since this all began, I’ve been thinking it was all a miracle,
some act of God. But now I feel like a complete fool, an idiot. This isn’t a miracle, it’s manipulation, a charade. It’s nothing but Fidel’s latest ploy and we are all his pawns.”

“Clara,” Henry began softly. “Why don’t you sit down a second and relax, chica? You’re frightened is all, which is only natural.”

I could see why Henry was an artist. He was sensitive and sensible and seemed to be the only level-headed one among us.

“I appreciate that, chico, but I’m not frightened, really I’m not. What I am is angry, mad that I’ve been fooled.”

He didn’t know what to say, but Amalia’s eyes sure did. I had never seen such fire in them, two black and raging fires that could not be contained. Unlike the night before, she was back to her old self, filled with all the verve and vigor I knew her to possess.

“Say something to her, will you, Rigo? See if you can make her come to her senses.”

I couldn't take the venom in her voice. It stung me deeply. She and Henry stepped off to the side, confering and gesturing in private, while Rigo and I did the same. I followed as he led me by the arm, escorting me a few feet away so that, we too, might talk in private.

Privacy
. The one thing I had craved all morning: just the chance to talk alone with my husband without some extraneous presence or intrusive force coming between us. Yet a new presence seemed to be looming. I detected it from the corner of my eye. I turned to the side to look, and there it was, rather close to us too: a policeman, one of the mongrels in blue. One of the officers assigned to patrol the beach and ensure that anyone leaving from Cojimar was not being coerced. He appeared young, and carried himself with that brash air of confidence of someone who hailed from the countryside. No doubt one of Fidel’s goons bussed in from the interior to beat down us haughty Habaneros. This young
guajiro
made no attempt to disguise the vigilant eye he kept on our exchange.

“Amor,” Rigo began. “What’s the matter with you? What’s going on, eh? You were going to tell me something earlier. Something that happened last night while I was gone. What was it, Clara?”

But I no longer wanted to delve into this matter or indulge in any part of it. What would I possibly say? “
Listen, amor. We can’t go to the United States because, you see, last night I had a visitation from the Angel Gabriel, and even though the doctors have told me repeatedly that I cannot bear children, you and I will indeed be having a child together. Well, kind of together. You see, the child—a girl—will not really be yours. She’ll belong to God. She’s to be named Luz, daughter of God. I will be the mother, naturally, and you’re going to help raise her just like Joseph helped Mary. There’s one catch,” I would add. “Now, don’t ask me why, amor, but the Angel Gabriel told me I could not leave Cuba. He was quite emphatic about that. He said the child had to be raised here in Cuba. You understand now why we can’t leave? You get it?”

But I stopped my thoughts cold in their tracks and shuddered at this ludicrous scenario. Was that what I would say? Was that how I would present it? So that Rigo could stare at me in disbelief and think I had completely lost my mind? No, I wouldn’t do it. I’d do nothing of the sort.

“It was nothing, Rigo. Nothing happened last night. Nothing at all. It’s what happened this morning, just now. I can’t stop thinking about all the things that absurd little man told us. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Who?” Rigo asked in earnest.

“The driver!” I replied. “That preposterous little know-it-all.”

“What things, Clara? What things did he say?"

“You know what things, Rigo. You heard them yourself: that Fidel is the one engineering all this, the one who conceived this whole plan. What if all these people fleeing are just his minions? What if they’re spies going over to infiltrate? Or what if they’re convicts and mental patients and we’ll be seen as nothing but Marielitos?”

“You don’t know that, Clara. You don’t know that for a fact.”

“Of course I do, Rigo. It all makes sense now. How else do you explain all this? How else?”

“It’s a miracle, Clara. You said so yourself and I believe it now. You were right, amor."

“No, Rigo. I was wrong, dead wrong.”

“Stop it, Clara! You’re just scared, amor. Henry was right. You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared, Rigo. I was simply wrong. I made the wrong assumption and I’m not afraid to admit it. All this commotion and chaos is no miracle. You want to know the real miracle? It’s what happened the day of the revolt, the rebellion on the fifth. It was the brave people who stood up to our captors. It was the chants of freedom that rang through the streets and the defiance along the Malecón. It was the breaking of windows at the Deauville and the throwing of rocks at those mongrels in blue.
That
was the miracle, Rigo. Not this. Don't you see that, for the first time in our lives, we felt courage and conveyed it?
That
was the miracle, Rigo This is just cowardice, compliance with Fidel's plan. He’s got us exactly where he wants us, and we’re playing right into his hands. Hasn’t this been his goal all along? To get us out of here, all those who hate this? Of course he’s only too glad to discard us. Each time one of us washes up on the beach or perishes in the ocean, he’s only too thrilled for it. We’re nothing but thorns in his side, weeds to pluck from this caged garden. I’ll tell you one thing, Rigo: the only ones not going anywhere are the two who started all this, the two who ignited the revolt. Those two guys now labeled as delinquents and derelicts. God help them, Rigo. Why do you think all these policemen are here? They’re not here to check ages or ensure that no one is being coerced. They're here looking for those two. They're hunting them down and God help them when they’re found. Now tell me you agree with me, amor. Tell me you understand all this and no longer want to go.”

I strove to stay focused on Rigo and his reply, but I
couldn’t. That damned mongrel kept distracting me. He wouldn’t budge from where he stood some ten feet away.
Privacy
. I couldn't find privacy even here, among the chaos and clutter of Cojimar. The mongrel and his partner were on their radios seemingly checking someone’s carnét, but I knew it was just a ruse. He kept stealing furtive glances our way, clearly focused on our exchange. Maybe he thought Rigo was one of the rock throwers. Maybe he thought I was the rock supplier. I didn’t know. I just knew that, the longer I waited impatiently for my husband’s response, the longer it took for him to say something, the worse it fared for me.

“No, Clara. I’m not,” he finally replied. “I’m not.”

How heartily I embraced him just then, immediately thanking God and the Virgin for answering my prayer.

“¡Gracias, amor! ¡Gracias! Thank God you agree with me. ¡Gracias, Señor! Now let's go tell them we're not going, Rigo. In fact, let's get Henry and Amalia to see the light.”

“No Clara," he uttered impassively. "You don't understand, chica. What I mean is
no
, I’m not telling them that. What I mean is
yes
, I’m still going.”

I couldn’t have heard correctly. I couldn’t have. For me to have heard what I thought I just heard could only be the result of one thing. It was all catching up with me: the exhaustion, the delerium, the strain and stress of the last ten days. How badly my whole body shook. How savagely the strands of stubborn disbelief pulled at me from both ends, scouring away at my very constitution as that mongrel in blue continued eavesdropping on us, continued looking our way as if to determine whether he should intervene, as if perhaps Rigo and I might be on Fidel's Most Wanted list.

“No, amor, you can’t be serious.”

“I am, Clara! I’m dead serious!” he said, grabbing me firmly by the arms and looking me squarely in the eyes.

“Remember what I told you last night, Clara. Remember what I said: make sure you were commited to this, make absolutely sure because there was no turning back. I would
not be changing my mind once I moved forward. Remember that?”

My shoulders collapsed as I cried. Of course I remembered. Of course I did. But no matter how much I sobbed or shook my head or my entire chest caved in and heaved, I could not accept or believe this was happening. It was all some horrible dream and I could only feel the mongrel’s presence stronger than ever, as if he were getting ready to intervene and get to the bottom of our altercation. Privacy. Why was there never any privacy in Cuba? No time, nowhere.

“I was wrong, amor, I was wrong. Say you’re staying with me. I’m your wife, chico. You’re my husband. What about all the people in Rio Piedras who are counting on you? What about the library project in Camagüey? You’re going to abandon that too?”

But Rigo’s eyes held fast to mine, their expression stern and intractable, yet eerily calm.

“This is what you haven’t told me about, isn’t it, Clara? This is what happened last night while I was gone? You had a change of heart. You decided not to go through with this, didn’t you? That’s why you hardly packed anything. Why you stayed in bed so late this morning and took your sweet time moving about. You planned this all along, didn’t you, Clara? Yet you accuse Fidel of engineering things!”

"No, chico, that's not true. I swear that none of this occurred to me until right now, until the words of that absurd little man sank in and made sense to me. I had an epiphany, Rigo, a revelation of some sort.”

"What do you mean an
epiphany
, chica? What do you mean
a revelation?
You know that this whole religion thing has really gone to your head. What made sense to you? That all these people here this morning are not courageous? That they’re just fools falling for Fidel’s latest ploy? Don’t you be a fool yourself, Clara! They
are
courageous; they are brave. And for you to think otherwise is an insult, a slap to their faces. What difference does it make if Fidel is playing one of his
tricks or not? Who cares if the end result is freedom?
Freedom, Clara!
That is all any of us cares about—libertad! Freedom and being able to eat. Is that so bad? For the last time, Clara, are you going with us or not?"

I finally had my answer. If there was ever any chance I might reveal what transpired last night, Rigo’s words just sealed his fate. How had he just put it?
This whole religion thing has gone to my head. This whole religious thing!
Now I knew how receptive he’d be to last night’s visitation. I turned from him and looked toward the water. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but the tide seemed higher, the current much stronger, and I could hear the words of the Angel Gabriel galloping toward me from across the waves, all his tidings and admonitions..

"No, Rigo!” I said definitively. “I am not! I can't go, and I’m not going. And I'm begging you to do the same, chico. Don't leave me, Rigo. You're my life and I love you."

"What do you mean you can't, Clara? Why can’t you?”

I suddenly felt such anger at my husband that I refused to answer him. No, I felt anger and defiance. If now was the perfect time to divulge the visitation from the Angel and reveal the admonition that I stay in Cuba, I refused to do so. I would not share this with him in any way. Not with what little regard or respect he just showed me. Courage indeed! Of course, I didn’t know—nor did I assume to know—the driving forces behind all those gathered here, those who had been coming for ten days now and would surely keep coming. Frustration, of course. Desperation, for sure. A hunger for freedom, no doubt. But there was also an element of opportunism here, of pure adventure and wanderlust, and these were the forces now catapulting Rigo to flee: a lust for adventure, a lust for escape. He had to keep in mind that, as of yesterday, I
still
had been battling him, I
still
had to persuade him to leave. Had it not been for all my pleas and supplications, we wouldn’t be standing here right now; instead, he’d be getting ready to return to Rio Piedras. A craving for action. A greed for excitement. These were the forces truly driving him and I felt betrayed. Not only was he
choosing adventure over me, he was willing to sacrifice our love and marriage for it.

"Answer me, Clara! What do you mean you can't? What happened last night while I was gone, chica? Why did you have a change of heart?"

"Nothing happened, Rigo, nothing at all! But I won't allow you to strand me. I won't allow you to abandon me.”