Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (3 page)

“You agree with what?” I continued, foaming in all my fury. “Agree with what Rigo?”

“With going, amor. I said ‘yes’. You’ve convinced me, and I’m going.”

I caught the words unmistakably this time, all of them. But I knew I must have heard wrong. This had to be a mistake, and I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t scream in my head because it made no sense. Not unless this was another miracle. And it had to be. It was happening too quickly, materializing out of nowhere, as all miracles do.

“You’re what?” I asked again.

“I said
yes
, amor—
yes!
”

It was I who wanted to respond, but my words were being hijacked. I wanted to utter some appropriate reply, but my tongue felt tightly trapped even as the speedboat of Rigo’s
words kept ramming into the ferry of my thoughts over and over again, pummeling the vessel of my obstinacy until it split wide open. What a fool I was. Even as he sprayed me with hope and tried to hasten the drowning of my doubt, I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t flee. Not when this was all a setup. I was sure of it. Rigo knew what he was doing. He was no innocent. He was feeding me false expectation just to shut me up. If he was serious about going and this was no accident, why had it taken him more than an hour before coming to his senses? Before radioing reason and watching my life’s goals nearly drown before his eyes? While my spirit screamed out in agony and foolish hope held up desperate dream to keep it from drowning.
Murderer! ¡Asesino!
That was all he’d become. As the helplessness of my soul struggled to stay afloat and fought to keep from saturating with stagnation, it filled me with such rage I wanted to scream. But I was too drained to scream. After all this silent wrangling, I formed my words softly and rather feebly.

“You’re going? Is that what you really said?”

“That’s what I said, amor. I’m going.”

“But how, chico? For three days you’ve been saying that…you’ve been telling me that…why, you’ve even insisted that—”

I struggled to complete my thoughts, but Rigo approached me and prevented me, raising a hand and placing it gently on my lips.

“Listen, amor. You know me. I don’t believe in miracles or much less, but you’re right. Things are never going to change around here, and I have to accept it. I’m never going to make my dreams come true unless we leave. I’m going, amor. I’m going with you!”

“You mean it, chico? You really mean it?”

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m going.
We’re going
.”

But despite the tenderness in his eyes, doubt consumed me, and I couldn’t accept it, not even if this was the response I had long awaited.

“But what’s changed?” I insisted. “For three days you’ve been fighting me and battling me and swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it. You’ve called it madness. Why have you now—”

Rigo placed his hand on my lips again, before my tongue could finish hijacking the rest of my thoughts.

“Amor,” he replied. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone? Why do you always have to push and push and push? I’m going, and that’s all that matters.”

That was when it happened, when I saw the light gloriously start draining from the interior of our room, when I noticed the pallor of its walls, a smooth and pale rust, deepen and darken into a crimson corrosion. Finally! Dusk finally in descent. Dusk finally dissolving into the tide pools of afternoon’s death. An unmistakable darkness was now on the rise, but oh, I could see more clearly than ever.

“You’re right, Rigo. I do push too much, don’t I? I’ll try to change, amor. Once I get to the United States, I promise I’ll change.”

A boyish and playful smile lit up his face, a surge of excitement infused his eyes. “Listen amor. Just so you know, I’m only going on one condition. I’m not settling in Tampa or St. Petersburg. I’m not living in Miami or any of the Keys. I don’t want any part of Florida or all the
cubaneo
there. If you can agree to that, tomorrow morning I’ll be on that ridiculous contraption of Henry’s, which will be a miracle if it floats.”

The sudden dose of levity caught me off guard, but his dig at Henry did not. Rigo didn’t like Henry, not even when they should have gotten along fine. One was an architect, the other an artist. Their professions were not identical, but certainly fraternal. The two should have shared much in common, but instead of mutual respect, they shared a mutual distaste.

“Where, then?” I asked. “Where do you want to go?”

“To California. I want to live in California.”

“Los Angeles?”

“No, not Los Angeles!” he said with scorn. “Remember
amor, above all I’m an architect, and a city like Los Angeles has nothing to offer an architect. San Francisco—that’s where we’re going.”

“San Francisco?”

“Yes, San Francisco, an architect’s paradise. I don’t know if I ever told you, amor, but one entire semester of our studies was devoted to the architecture of San Francisco, and ever since then, I’ve been dying to go there. I’ve wanted to see and experience the city’s architecture with my own eyes, especially a building there called the TransAmerica Pyramid…”

“The TransAmerica Pyramid? What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, you should see it, amor. It’s the most ingenious building of the twentieth century. It was built in the shape of a pyramid, and it’s the city’s tallest building. It’s a shining example of man’s potential for achievement and something you’d never see here in Cuba.”

“A pyramid, ey? How interesting.”

“Oh, it’s more than interesting, amor. It’s magnificent, a true marvel of architecture and engineering. But that’s only one of the many marvels and gems of San Francisco. There’s another structure called the Ferry Building that’s also impressive.”

“The Ferry Building?” I repeated in my Spanish accent, with an awkward roll of the
r
’s.

“Yes, amor, the Ferry Building at Marketplace. You should see the clock tower there. It sits like a crown on top of the building. It was modeled after the Giralda bell tower in Sevilla.”

“And?” I asked the beaming architect. “What about it?”

“What about it!” Rigo said in a huff. “Why, it’s one of the most beautiful landmarks in the whole city. It was built so well that it survived the 1906 earthquake. It’s where the Pacific Ocean ends and Market Street begins. Think of it as their Malecón.”

I was stunned to hear so a bold comparison. Could this Ferry Building or this Marketplace really be as special as the Malecón? Our city’s splendid and extraordinary esplanade? That golden necklace that curved around the bay and from which our hopes and dreams hung like invisible yet incandescent charms? I doubted it.

“You’ve never told me any of this, Rigo. You’ve never mentioned San Francisco or the TransAmerica Pyramid or this Ferry Building at Market Street.”

“I’ve never told you about the stadium called Candlestick Park either, how it’s located right on the water and how, for years, I’ve dreamed about seeing a baseball game there. I mean, why talk of things that have no chance of ever coming true?” he said. “Why even mention them?”

“Candlestick Park, huh? What an unusual name.”

“It’s a beautiful name, amor, and San Francisco is a beautiful city.”

I kept ruminating, contemplating. “Market Street, eh? San Francisco? I just assumed we’d always end up in Miami.”

“Never!” Rigo shot back. “Out of the question! San Francisco it has to be. I’ll find work in a firm that designs clock towers and bridges and schools and libraries and come up with the best designs the Americans have ever seen.”

“What about hotels?” I asked. “What about the luxury hotels you’ve always wanted to design?”

“Forget it!” he said flat-out. “I’m not interested in hotels of any kind anymore, luxury or otherwise.”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

“And I have a confession to make too,” he added.

“Confession, Rigo?”

“Well,” he hesitated. “If something had to be the catalyst of all this madness, this Maleconazo, I’m glad it was a rock through the Deauville, that’s for sure!”

“Why is that?” I asked in surprise.

“That hotel is a complete eyesore!” he said “Not only Art Deco dull, but it’s always looked as if somebody sheared it in half!”

I didn’t respond. Personally, I liked the Deauville. But after what Rigo had been through the last couple of years, I certainly understood why he was averse to hotels and wanted nothing to do with them anymore. Maybe that would change in time, once we settled in the United States.

“Well?” he asked. “Are we in agreement?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know much about San Francisco, beyond the Golden Gate Bridge and all the gays. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the sound of it. It seemed that San Francisco was just as much a writer’s city as an architect’s.

“Fine,” I said. “Agreed! San Francisco it will be. I don’t know how we’ll get there, and we definitely won’t know anyone there, but if you want to live in San Francisco, San Francisco it is.”

Rigo threw his arms around my waist and lifted me up before kissing me. He held me in place for the longest time and peered at me with his infectious smile. I hadn’t seen him this happy in over a year and hadn’t felt happier myself. He put me back down.

“Just one question, amor. Why tomorrow? Why so soon?”

“Why not tomorrow? Why wait and leave things to chance?”

“It’s so soon, amor. How can we possibly get ready by tomorrow?”

“What’s to get ready, Rigo? We’re going by raft, remember? There’s only room for four bodies, and that’s it.”

Rigo shook his head at me. He smiled and cupped my face with his hands. “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you, amor?”

I pulled him close to me and draped my arms around his neck. “Well, remember that miracles don’t last forever, Rigo.
We have to act quickly, move fast. What if tomorrow is the last day of it? What if today was and we don’t know it yet?”

The expression on Rigo’s face changed ever so slightly. His thoughts turned inward even though he looked straight at me. I wanted to know what worries had just invaded his thoughts, but I wouldn’t push.

“You really think this is a miracle, amor? You really think so?”

“I know so, Rigo, and so do you.”

“And you’re sure it has to be tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning, amor, August 15, 1994. The day we’ll leave this all behind and never look back.”

He kept peering into my eyes, but his thoughts turned ever inward and silent. Something was bothering him and the look that hung on his face said it all. Whether it was a look of acceptance, resignation, or reality setting in, I couldn’t tell. But I felt sorry for Rigo. At times he was a wounded and innocent little boy, and I must learn to go easy on him, listen compassionately. I kissed him on the mouth with all the feeling I could summon.

“Let’s celebrate,” I said. “Let’s do it right now as long as we’ve got the house to ourselves. Let’s make love for the last time in this homeland of ours.”

“Right now?” he asked, his eyes darkening with ruggedness and lust.

“Right now,” I replied.

He didn’t decline my offer, of course. We made glorious and wondrous love, the last vestiges of dusk giving way to a nascent night, and light fusing into darkness with the feel and finesse of a fluctuating flame. I never felt closer to Rigo or more passionate about him than during our union that particular dusk. Partial darkness glowed with the frenzy of desire and distant points of light were all that I saw. When we finished I wanted him to love me over and over again. I wanted this dusk of desire to last forever and for Rigo to hold me and never let go. We lay in bed and I wanted desperately
to stayed glued to him, but he had more pressing matters on his mind.

“I need to tell my parents,” he said. “I need to break the news to Mamá.”

“Right now? You have to do that right now?”

“
Coño mija
, I have to tell them sometime, don’t I? We’re leaving tomorrow.”

He was right, and I knew it. As much as I wanted to hold on and never let go, Rigo was a practical man. He had to notify his parents and get it over with. I didn’t want to think about my mother-in-law or how she would pin this on me.

“All right,” I said. “I understand, amor. Go ahead.”

Rigo slipped out of my arms and out of bed, and while I contentedly stayed put, he quickly threw his clothes on in all their splendid drabness. But I couldn’t move. I continued on my side even though he was right: we had a lot to do, a lot to finalize. A restless and nervous energy stirred, but I sealed it off, closing my eyes and managing to drift off when his voice rudely awakened me. I found him sitting on the edge of the bed gently stroking my hair.

“I just want to tell you one more thing, amor, and remember this while I’m gone.”

“What?”

“You know me, amor. You know that when I make up my mind about something, it’s do or die, that I don’t go back on things.”

“I know, Rigo. Why are you saying this?”

“Because, amor, as of this moment I’m committed—we’re committed. We go through with this no matter what. No backing out.”

“
Me back out? I won’t back out, amor. I’m the one who just convinced you. The one who’s been hounding you for three days.”

That peevish and playful smile returned to his face. “All
right, amor, all right. I just want you to respect how I feel.”

“I do, Rigo. You be the one to remember that when your mother is throwing a fit.”

He’d had enough of me. Rigo bent over and kissed me goodbye, but I wouldn’t let go of him. He had to peel me off of him. After some wrangling he finally freed himself and wasted no time in grabbing his wallet and watch and departing from the pale rust walls of our room.

“Be strong!” I called out after him. “Remember your own words when your mother tries talking you out of this. You know she’s going to put up a fight, and a fierce one.”

He responded not, but it didn’t matter. I knew what the response would have been. Rigo’s mother could never do any wrong. He stayed his course in silence and made his way down the narrow hall, reaching the front door and opening it softly. Rigo’s family lived close by, and I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I had longed for night’s arrival, but our hated
apagón
—our nightly blackout—would soon go into effect, and I dreaded being alone in the house during the hours of blackness.