Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (8 page)

After the wedding she fell into a depression so deep and mournful the doctors recommended electroshock therapy. Everybody tried talking her out of it, terrified of what so drastic a treatment might do, fearful it might leave her in a permanent vegetative state. But it worked. Mihrta came back stronger and livelier, more determined than ever. The voltage in her brain worked such wonders she swore by electroshock therapy as a miraculous cure-all. Rigo’s younger brother was studying electrical engineering and Mihrta insisted he invent a home version of the therapy. He managed to come up with something all right, but almost burned the house down in doing so.

I didn’t know what was going on over there, how Mihrta was putting her healing hands to use, whether she was feeding him chicken soup or hooking him up to a cord and lamp. One week turned into two, and two became three, and I feared I might never see my husband again. Then Providence intervened and brought Rigo back to life and back to me, or so I thought. It happened without notice again. He had decided to visit his favorite professor to discuss the prospect of switching to teaching when, unexpectedly, he got a call about another exciting project.

“Don’t tell me,” he began sarcastically, knowing all about
outsourcing
and how, soon, it would set a course for the entire future. “More luxury hotels?”

“No,” they replied, missing the sarcasm in his voice. “Nothing as glamorous as that, but infinitely more important.”

They had piqued his curiosity with their cryptic teasing. Maybe the Ministry of Housing had approved a new construction project. “Well?” he asked. “What is it?”

“A school!” they announced excitedly. “A very special school!”

“What type of school?” he asked cynically.

“One the Revolution is in dire need of,” they explained. “One the Revolution can no longer place on hold or put off indefinitely, and we want you in charge of it, chico. We want it to be a prototype for all future schools in Cuba.”

Before they provided him with any specifics, Rigo’s mind fired away. He wished he had pencil and paper right then and there because he could already see this school vividly in his mind. Not a single-story complex typical of the traditional Latin American school, but a tall and futuristic structure fashioned from steel and glass and metal and windows on all four sides, windows from floor to ceiling that allowed a panoramic light to stream in and from which faculty and student alike could gaze into infinity. Rigo had already calculated the height of the building and how many stories it should have, and just to teach everyone a lesson, he would design this new school like a hotel, a luxury hotel. It may have been years away from completion, and even years away from rising off the ground, but already Rigo couldn’t wait for the christening of this landmark building that would punctuate Havana’s skyline with a bold exclamation point.

“Just wait!” he told the officials. “I’m going to design a school like no other. It will be the most innovative and recognizable school Havana has ever seen.”

“Havana?” they scoffed. “Who said anything about Havana?”

“Isn’t that where it’s going to be?” he asked. “Isn’t the school for right here in the capital?”

“Absolutely not!” they declared. “The last thing Havana needs is another school. In fact, the ministry recently decided there are too many schools in the city and wants to shut some down.”

“Oh,” said Rigo. “Well, where then?”

“¡Camagüey!” they proudly announced. “In the little town of Rio Piedras in the historic and colonial province of Camagüey.”

Rigo’s heart deflated and sank.
¡Camagüey! Again!
No, he couldn’t have heard correctly. “Did you say Camagüey?” he asked.

This time the officials caught the tinge of disappointment in his voice and homed in on it. “Is there a problem compañero?”

“No,” he said. “No problem. It’s just that, as you know, I’m married and all, and—”

“You were willing to go there before,” they countered.

“I know, but you see, I feel bad about leaving my wife now, and, well—”

“You didn’t feel bad about leaving her when it was luxury hotels you were going to build. You only feel bad now that the project involves a school and your prospects aren’t quite as glamorous.”

“Oh no,” Rigo replied, trying to do some quick damage control. “It won’t be a problem. I can assure you, no problem at all.”

“Glad to hear it, compañero, glad to hear it. Don’t worry,” they said. “It’s only nine hundred kilometers away. One weekend home a month will be more than enough for you.”

Rigo took hold of his senses and further acquiesced. “Yes,” he said. “That’ll be fine.”

“Good to hear,” they assured him yet again. “Good to
hear. And listen. We know you’re a newlywed, but just wait. In a few years you’ll be begging us to send you to Camagüey. No, you’ll be begging us to send you to Angola.”

Rigo didn’t know if they were joking or not, but regardless, the officials were totally off base. My husband loved me more than anything and didn’t find their jaded humor the least bit amusing. Still, he knew they were due proper respect and acknowledgement.

“That’s funny,” he said with a very thin laugh. “Very funny.”

“Listen,” they further advised him. “You just concentrate on building this school and doing a good job, and the sooner you complete it, the sooner you’ll come home to your wife seven days a week. How’s that?”

Rigo couldn’t ask for anything more, and he knew it. “Do you think I can work in Havana then?” he asked. “Do you think some projects might open up in the capital?”

“Oh, yes,” they replied. “Projects are always opening up in the capital, compañero, you know that. And with someone of your exceptional talents, well, you’ll get top choice of any project you want.”

It seemed a done deal. He either went to the town of Rio Piedras in Camagüey to build this school, or he could kiss his fledgling career good-bye. With Mihrta’s unwavering insistence, Rigo chose Camagüey, ashamed to admit that he really didn’t know much about this silent province to the east. Only that it relied on cattle production and agriculture for its existence and was known the world over for its
tinajones
—giant clay pots used for collecting rainwater. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. All by himself and without Havana’s big city distractions, Rigo could bury himself in his work. He could complete the project ahead of schedule and return home all the sooner. His housing would be provided at a large cattle co-op, but this did not mean extra meat in his diet; in fact, when it came to working and living at cattle co-ops, the state required workers be strictly vegetarian.

Rigo was promised a team of ranch hands from this co-op
to help with construction, and he planned on cracking the whip. He would not permit any delays or allow anything to derail a tight timeline. He wasn’t just doing it for selfish reasons either. He thought of the time, money, and resources he’d be saving the Revolution. It was a laudable goal, especially for someone so young.

But commendable and ambitious as his objectives were, almost immediately upon stepping foot on Camagüey soil, Rigo knew he had problems, big problems. It happened the moment he submitted his schematics to the local leaders who’d been appointed to oversee the project and report back to the ministry.

“What’s this?” they asked. “This doesn’t look like a school. It looks like a hotel, a luxury hotel.”

Rigo calmly explained the way officials had presented the project to him: that it was supposed to be a school of the future, a prototype for all subsequent schools on the island, and more than anything, the ministry wanted some groundbreaking, revolutionary design. Rigo whipped out his portfolio and all who had gathered around savored his visionary sketches and designs. Not surprisingly, by the end of the presentation, Rigo had won over every official with his intellect and charm. They had never met anyone like him. They were more than impressed and recognized that, in Rigo, they had secured a talented and driven individual who could make things happen. Unfortunately, they had some bad news. They were sorry to inform him that clearly, some grave miscommunication had occurred.

“Look,” they said. “We don’t know what you were told in Havana, but all we need is a simple primary school house on our rolling plains. That’s all, with two, maybe three rooms at most.”

“That’s it?” Rigo asked.

“Yes. You see, there’s a community of cattle ranchers here, meat eaters, who not only refuse to read and write, they refuse to let their children learn to read and write. This is a crime against the state, as you know, and we’ve been
instructed by party leaders that these hooligans and their offspring must come into compliance within a year and become fully literate—without fail!”

“I see,” said Rigo.

“Yes, and they have finally agreed, but only as long as the school is located at the cattle co-op where the children can tend to their duties and learn.”

“Oh,” said Rigo.

“That’s all we need, compañero—a little schoolhouse. Besides, how could you possibly build a school of your proportions here? Where would all the workers come from?”

“Right here,” he said. “I was told they’d come from right here in the cattle co-op.”

“Impossible!” local leaders countered. “Again, I don’t know what they told you in Havana, but everyone here is busy helping with the new project in the province, even us.”

“New project?” Rigo asked. “What new project?”

Every pair of eyes lit up magically, electrically. “Why, a series of luxury hotels along the coast,” they replied. “And they’re going to be beautiful.”

Rigo felt himself in the grip of some inner trembling but managed to quell it. “Not in Santa Lucía?” he asked.

“Why, yes!” they exclaimed. “How did you know?”

Rigo’s heart pounded savagely. Had he been lied to after all? Had they tricked him? Was the project back in the works with Cuban firms and Cuban workers? It had to be. Local leaders had no reason to lie to him. Had he offended someone after all? Had he stepped on the wrong toes? Rigo immediately wanted to call his favorite professor, but the phone lines in Camagüey did not reach Havana. Unable to take any action, he was beside himself. Rigo had planned on laboring and toiling through his first weekend in Camagüey, but now he issued a statement canceling all scheduled work.

“Both days?” they asked.

“Both days,” he replied. “You see, I’ve got a couple aunts who live right here in Camagüey, and they insist I come over for dinner my first weekend or they’ll never forgive me.”

Residents from the co-op understood. Those from the countryside knew better than anyone about the politics of extended family. But Rigo had no aunts in Camagüey. Not any aunts, direct or through marriage. Not any close family or distant. He didn’t know a soul in the province. Rigo lied because he needed to settle something critical before lifting so much as a finger at their request.

That Saturday morning he paid a driver to take him from the remote pueblo of Rio Piedras toward the beaches of Santa Lucía, knowing exactly where to go. He had, after all, been privy to the coordinates in the blueprints and knew precisely where groundbreaking for the project was slated. Rigo wasn’t sure what he might discover there, but suspected he had been lied to. Well, he was partially in the right. On the one hand, they had lied to him, but on the other hand they hadn’t.

Outsourcing was definitely thriving along the pristine coastline of Santa Lucía, and in full force. This was evident as he looked around and noticed the corporate placards of numerous foreign companies staked in the ground there: Canadian companies. Spanish companies. Japanese firms, and even Chinese ones. Yes, Chinese! Those who were supposed to be stauncher communists than the Cubans.

But that did not come as the big shock. If Rigo remembered that all this outsourcing would create local jobs, that could hardly be the case at the moment. Not with every worker in sight running around with an efficiency and intensity he had never witnessed in his life. The everyday Cuban did not work like this; clearly these were all foreigners. There were definitely some locals there, but only a few. He could tell from their appearance, from their manner of dress and their diction especially. Camagüeyans actually pronounced their words rather than ate them. Rigo recognized a few cattle hands from the co-op, some of the vegetarians, and approached them on their break.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “What is all this?”

“The new Varadero,” they proudly informed him. “Cuba’s new international hotspot.”

“Was it hard getting hired?” Rigo asked. “Are they paying you well?”

“Well, we’re not exactly hired,” the cattle hand explained. “And we’re not actually getting paid.”

“I don’t understand,” Rigo said.

“Well, technically we can’t get hired because that would be accepting foreign currency, and the state won’t allow it. But we can put in hours of unpaid volunteer labor.”

“And you don’t mind?” Rigo asked. “You wouldn’t rather be earning something?”

“Well, of course! But as long as we have to put in volunteer hours anyway, it might as well be for something exciting. Besides, sometimes we get tips on the side—but you didn’t hear that. Hey, aren’t you that new architect in town? That visitor everybody’s talking about?”

Rigo felt so disgusted by all he had heard, he couldn’t think straight. These were the local jobs created by outsourcing? Measly menial labor with no monetary compensation? How would he ever get his school built? How, when all the able-bodied townspeople preferred building hotels for free just to be part of the experience? How, when all the locals preferred the paltry handouts of foreigners to the stoicism of self-dignity? Even here, all the way in Camagüey, the residents preferred to lend themselves to visitors of foreign lands than give of themselves to their own posterity. On the ride back from Santa Lucía to Rio Piedras, Rigo did some long, hard thinking and decided that the moment he arrived at the cattle co-op, he would resign immediately and head back to Havana. My husband had had it with all the deception and chicanery and no longer wanted any part of it. But when Rigo made his announcement to local leaders, they wouldn’t hear of it.