Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (6 page)

“No,
hija
!” he sobbed. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? This is all a setup! That boyfriend of yours is no innocent. He’s feeding you false expectation. He’s setting you up.”

“She loves him,” an aunt interjected. “And he loves her.”

“Love!” the father sneered. “Artists don’t know the first thing about love. Artists don’t love anybody but themselves. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a numbers man? Why couldn’t she love someone good at math?”

I needed to leave, and quickly. As Amalia’s family unraveled, this was no time for outsiders. This was a family crisis and I must bring my intrusive visit to an end. Just wait till she broke the news about leaving for Cojimar
tonight
. He’d really think it all a setup then. Or maybe she wouldn’t break the news at all. Maybe she’d just up and float away. Amalia lay inert in her dispassionate gaze, and just before taking my leave, the bull tried one last time knocking some sense into me.

“Don’t go, Clara! Don’t go, chica!” her father begged me.
“What about your mother? What about your sisters? You can’t do this to them. You can’t do this to Pilar. She’s innocent in all this, and she needs you! Who’s going to watch over her if you’re gone? Who’s going to take care of her, Clara? Don’t let that artist force you into this, too! What type of artist is he anyway? What has he ever created?”

Innocent!
This man had the nerve to mention the word innocent when he knew exactly what he was doing! When it was no accident he had assembled the whole family here tonight and for over an hour now they had tried forcing Amalia to come to her senses. How dare he pump his daughter with so much guilt! How dare he force guilt down my own throat! This man was a dangerous fool, and I’d had enough.

I wanted out. I had to leave before reason radioed panic and my life’s goals drowned before my eyes. I wanted out before my spirit screamed out in agony and my hopes plunged into desperation and despair. Murderer!
¡Asesino!
That was all he was. Wasn’t it time this man came to
his
senses? Wasn’t it? As my soul struggled to stay afloat and it fought to keep from filling with frustration, the sight of this man filled me with such rage I wanted to scream. But I was too drained to scream. After so much silent wrangling I could only form a few words, all of them softly and rather feeble.

“I’m sorry,” I said, giving him a hug and a kiss good-bye before I left. “I’m so sorry.”

But he continued pleading and wouldn’t let go of me. And the flushed and feverish faces that invaded the room rushed the doorway to block my path. If I didn’t know how I would ever get out, I couldn’t have asked for better timing when the house suddenly went dark and a chorus of wails erupted through the room, all the frightened faces scrambling in search of candles and oil lamps as Amalia lay in the middle of her bed oblivious to the confusion and whether it was dark or light.

“It’s a sign!” her mother called out. “It’s a sign she won’t be leaving us.”

“No!” her grandmother yelled out. “It’s a sign she’s as good as dead already. My
preciosa mijita
is dead and gone.”

“No!” an aunt chimed in. “It’s a sign she can still come back to us. Quick, get her some raspadura! And make sure it’s not the one that fell on the floor.
”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Amalia’s father finally boomed in, his voice rising about the litany of speculation. “It’s no sign of anything! It’s just our fucking
apagón
for the night, that’s all it is!”

I hated to admit it, but the bull was right. As religious as I now regarded myself, this sudden power outage was no mystical incident, just our nightly blackout. It was eight o’clock, and the apagón would remain in effect for the next twelve hours. The time for escape had come. It wouldn’t be easy, but darkness had snuck in as my accomplice.

A gauntlet. As I left Amalia’s house for the last time ever, it felt I was passing through some medieval gauntlet. Arms to one side, arms to the other. Faces on both sides of me, voices all around. I tried focusing on the front door, but the arms along that gauntlet reached out and tugged at me, tried pulling me back. I tried shielding my eyes from the panoply of faces, but the ghastly glare in all those eyes terrified me and caused me to tremble. I tried covering my ears from the weeping and wailing, but the deafening walls of laughter still seeped through. It had all fused into a blur of sight and sound that didn’t cease until I jumped into the street and shut the door firmly behind me! Finally, did it end—finally! Only one thing did I want to see before exiting the house: the statue of the Virgin Mary, just to ask for her blessing, but the darkness and the gauntlet completely blocked my view.

What in the world had I just witnessed? What on earth had I just lived through? I couldn’t make any sense of it all, but one good thing did come of it: the emotional blackmail had not derailed me any; in fact, I felt more grounded than ever. How I pitied this family and any like it. So caught up in trite desperation they couldn’t think sensibly. So intent on parental selfishness that they preferred to hold their daughter
back and sacrifice her future just for the comfort of having her nearby. Thank goodness I had no interest in being a parent. Thank goodness I did not ever want to bear any children.

I just didn't get it. Couldn't the naysayers understand that nobody was forcing anyone to do anything? Didn't they realize this miracle had visited us for a reason? I loved Amalia’s parents, but they were wrong. Even this minor setback involving the raft would not deter me any. Still, I must be more compassionate. It wasn’t their fault. Some of us would always live in darkness, others would discover a hidden light. So I would not let Amalia’s news discourage me. Henry could fix anything, and La Maloja would be fine come morning.

I coursed my way through the streets of Centro Habana, and for a few harrowing moments, a new chorus of wails rang out. As our nightly blackout doused everything in a suffocating black, residents clanged on pots from their balconies, pounded on windows from their living rooms, or banged on pans from their stairwells. Whether it was a chorus of resentment or a choir of rejoicing, I couldn’t tell. I just wanted to get home. I wondered whether Rigo had yet returned and whether Mamá and my sisters might still be out. Would I be entering a dark and empty house or stepping into my own family crisis? My family was much smaller than Amalia’s. We were not at all the size of a typical Cuban clan.

The streets were filled with people this evening, pulsing with a raw exhilaration of their own. It felt like New Year’s Eve, like Carnival time even. That explained all the police out, all the mongrels in blue and in their black boots and belts. I hated men in uniform. I despised any kind of uniformity. But there were droves of those uniforms everywhere, which meant only one thing: they were expecting problems tonight. They were sniffing for any hint of trouble or looking out for any sign of resistance. I felt like an easy target, but despite the police presence I pushed on, coursing my way defiantly through the narrow streets and pulsing anonymously in my resolve.

Dusk had gone. No more partial darkness. No more sign of
its opaqueness as Night gave rise to a cool and thin air. A warm and inward light stirred within my breast and illuminated my path home, shining on a parade of faces so that with each one I encountered, I wondered what that face might mean. Was it the face of someone partaking of the miracle or of someone ignoring it? Was it the face of someone choosing freedom and life or submitting to death? In short, was it the face of a wise man or a fool?

If I had felt drained and exhausted earlier, I no longer did. Not as these silent contemplations swirled within. Not as they injected me with jolts of pure and raw energy. And certainly not as everything surrounding me surged and pulsed with life through all the twists and turns of our city.

Nine days since the miracle at the Deauville. Nine days since those who ruled every aspect of our lives here—the ones who kept constant watch over us—called it an “act of terror.” Still, that didn’t deter anyone from wanting to bear witness to the infamous act:
¡El Maleconazo!
Many continued gravitating toward the flashpoint for any sign of last week’s rebellion. Rumor had it that visitors from all over the island, as if in pilgrimage, kept pouring into the capital just to see the hotel for themselves, personally wanting to see where the incident had unfolded and hoping to view any remnants of the revolt with their own eyes.

The answer was no. The government wasted no time in fixing the broken windows of the Deauville and replacing them on that same August 5, all in a futile attempt to erase any sign of the insurgence. Did that explain all the people out tonight? Was that what all these faces meant? Were all these visitors merely attending a wake and paying their respects to the Deauville one last time before this historic act of rebellion was finally laid to rest?

I lived close by, on Calle Perseverancia, and reached my street in no time. I was just about to turn the corner onto my block of decaying and crumbling houses when I felt something tugging at me, something faint yet forceful: the unexpected pull of the Malecón. Our famous seawall beckoned me back in the other direction.

I stopped and wavered, and in those fleeting moments of indecision, one of the mongrels in blue took note of me. I could sense his suspicious eyes all over my body. I could feel them on my back. What exactly were they keeping watch over? What exactly were they expecting? This had to be the only nation on earth where standing stationary was a threat to the country’s security.

I was sure Rigo must be home by now. I was anxious to get back to him. But I couldn’t break the pull of the Malecón. It urged me toward it. It called me back in the other direction. It was the taste of something sweet in my mind that wouldn’t wash clean. I hadn’t visited the seafront for weeks now. Not since the end of July when I’d waited with the multitudes for the ferry that never came. Since then I’d had no desire to return. But now, in a trance of sorts, I gravitated toward it, approaching that beloved part of our city where water met land and dreams delicately unfolded or folded back up.

I could no longer resist and caved in to its call. I would visit the Malecón one last time, even if just to say good-bye to my city and bid it a melancholy farewell. It was asking for trouble and I knew it. The majority of the mongrels were stationed there, keeping empty watch over our restive populace and expecting imaginary trouble. I knew who I was. I knew I had trouble written all over my face. No doubt they would stop and harass me, but I no longer cared. I was leaving tomorrow. So let the mongrels just try.

“Yes,” I would snarl at them. “How can I help you? What do you want? You see, while you continue to rot in this cesspool of Socialism, I’m getting the hell out of here tomorrow. While you continue to corrode inside this trashcan of Communism, my body will float toward freedom and democracy. My body will take to the sea and there’s nothing you can do to stop me—nothing!”

It may have been mid-August, but it felt cool out. I picked up the pace to keep warm. I managed to arrive at the seawall completely unnoticed, no contact with anyone or anything. Sure enough, the mongrels were all there: dozens and dozens fanned out across the Malecón, scores of them in full force.
They too seemed involved in some kind of wake. Not over those already deceased. Not over those who embraced the living death here and settled back into an afterlife of atrophy. Only over those with a hidden light. Those with a spark of energy and in a fury to flee.

Clearly, the mongrels knew which one I was. Clearly they sensed the firestorm of exhilaration burning within and thus they eyed me. Indeed, it didn’t take long before a pack of them encased me on both sides, but I ignored it. As long as I stayed focused on the water, their presence had no effect on me. As long as I looked out to sea, I could shield myself from their gauntlet.

The Malecón. Like any native of Havana how I loved that delicate necklace that wound its way along the bay. Just as the Eiffel Tower was the face of Paris and the Empire State Building that of New York, the Malecón was the face of our city. For some time now it had signified nothing to me. I had come to view it as an old and crumbling seawall, a corral to rein in and further confine the heart of our city. Not tonight. Not the night before our departure. Now I saw it as an elegant and aged gate waiting to open up and eagerly show us the way out.

And what a beautiful night. As I stood at the wall by the sea, never had I seen the night sky so richly textured, so much in motion. It was layered in distinct shades of color: above the horizon lay a band of charcoal, raw and gritty. Above this a delicate layer of ashen gray spun in wisps of cotton. And above them both a thick blanket of black softly pressed down. What an unusual sight: these three bands that lay atop each other as if sharing a bed in the night sky. And what a dazzling array of light scattered throughout—not just along the skyline, but in a sprinkling of white and silver and even vanilla that hung high overhead. I couldn’t be sure if all these lights resembled stars or granules of finely powdered sugar swirling and crystalizing deep in the tropical night.

What a magical spot where I stood, from where our stately skyline sparkled so brightly. If it were it up to me, we would leave from here rather than Cojimar. No better place existed
to stage an exit. The Malecón, the launching spot of every Cuban’s hopes and dreams. But for now I put such notions aside. I wanted to enjoy the exhilaration of the night sky and its glimmering pulse of lights, to intoxicate myself with the whispering sounds of the ocean and the seductiveness of its scent.

How I loved the water. I had all my life. Just not at night. How different the sea was at nighttime than during the day. In the light of day it was always a warm and friendly face, a familiar and smiling friend. But at night it was an unknown stranger with all its inherent dangers and something to be avoided. As much as I trusted in the events of this past week and knew them to be miraculous, thank God we were leaving in the morning. I could never take to the water at night. I could never let that unknown stranger blindly guide me. To think of all the brothers and sisters who had taken their journey under cover of night only to perish, who had trustingly accepted the hand of that stranger only to be betrayed by it.
That
was valor. That was raw courage and I shivered thinking about it.