Waiting for Snow in Havana (13 page)

The image of those
diablitos
dancing around bonfires out in the sugarcane fields would haunt me for years. Until the day I left Cuba, to be precise.

Anyway, the sculptures on the landing of Aunt Carmela's grand staircase gave off the same vibes to me. And so did the giant Saint Lazarus statue in a small shrine behind the kitchen. The leper hospital she had founded was named after Saint Lazarus, the patron saint of lepers, and that's why she had this giant statue in her house. There he was, life-size, just like the
diablito
mannequins, Saint Lazarus, hobbling on crutches, disfigured by leprosy, the sores on his legs being licked by dogs. Mean-looking mangy dogs.

Somehow, devotees of Saint Lazarus found out about the image at Carmela's house and came all the way to Miramar to venerate it. Most of them were ragged, humble people. Several times while I was visiting, I saw them knocking on the rear door, begging for admission to the shrine.

Lazarus had plenty of candles and votive offerings. Fruit. Coins. Trinkets. Cigars.

To African Cubans, Lazarus was someone other than Lazarus. He was an African deity in Catholic disguise. A powerful one. Hard to know how white Cubans got to like him, but they did. Need and despair know no race or class boundaries, I guess.

Years later, in Chicago, I knew a white Cuban family that kept a statue of Saint Lazarus in their living room and offered it glasses of rum and cigars. In Havana, they'd lived near the Plaza de Marianao. In Chicago their apartment building was right next to the El, the elevated train tracks, even closer than ours. Unlike the Lazarus at Carmela's house, which was large and frightening, this small exiled Lazarus was benign, almost comical. The cigar was always precariously perched on the edge of the wooden shelf on which Lazarus stood, and every time an elevated train rumbled by the cigar would do a little dance of indecision on the edge of the shelf.

Shall I stay at the feet of Lazarus, or shall I tumble to the floor?

This family took to thinking that Lazarus sometimes rejected their offerings. So whenever the cigar fell off the shelf, thanks to the El, they would go out and buy a more expensive one.

“Listen, little Lazarus, you have to grant me this favor I asked for. Look, I bought you a very good, expensive cigar,” the lady of the house said one day while I was there.

Eventually, Lazarus made it all the way to Honduran cigars that cost twenty dollars each, which was a lot of money thirty years ago. Every now and then he'd get a smuggled Cuban cigar. Real Montecristos for the disguised African deity.

Greedy Lazarus. Avaricious little leper, exiled to a red brick apartment building on which the sun shone for only one hour a day in winter, on Winthrop Avenue, right next to a train line that never shut down, on the edge of a slum, two blocks from ice blue Lake Michigan and the high-rise towers of the well-to-do, just one block from our own basement apartment with the pipes running all along the ceiling.

All right, maybe I should be kinder to poor Lazarus. Maybe he wasn't greedy. After all, there he was, over two thousand miles from home. Maybe he felt imprisoned in that dark apartment. Maybe he didn't like the look of the little sliver of gray sky he could see from his perch in the living room. Maybe he was more than a little annoyed by that El train rumbling twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year—sixty-six in leap years. Maybe he would have liked Miami better. Maybe he longed for real Cuban cigars.
No El Productos, please. No Dutch Masters. No Tiparillos. If you offer me Tiparillos, I'll curse you.
Maybe he really wanted to help his fellow Cubans and felt empathy for them. Maybe it wasn't too much fun for him to watch the man of the house leave for work at midnight and return at ten in the morning, after his two teenage sons had already gone off to school. Maybe it was even less fun to put up with the six wailing children that the lady of the house cared for while their Cuban mothers went off to work at the Lava lamp factory on Lawrence Avenue.

Yeah, I take it back. Poor Saint Lazarus of North Winthrop Avenue. I need to cut him a lot of slack. Since all images are linked to their prototype in heaven—even images that mask African deities—that Lazarus in Chicago was constantly in tune with every other Lazarus in the world, and especially all the Lazaruses in Cuba, including the one in Carmela's very nice house, and the one at her leper hospital.

Imagine how he felt.

The Lazarus of Carmela's mansion was probably still there, on those very same days when I saw the cigar doing the El train dance on the shelf in Chicago. I don't know how long it stood there or whether it's still there.

Carmela died in my mother's arms in 1964, in her own bedroom, not far from her Lazarus, in her mansion, surrounded by her shrouded furniture and whatever memories were hidden beneath those veils. My dad was there too. I have no idea where Ernesto was and don't care to know. I don't know about the butler either. My brother and I were two thousand miles away, probably playing in the snow. We loved snow so much. It was such a novelty. Archie and Addison were there too. Daisy was in London, where she had lived for decades. Carmela's two children by her Cuban husband were in Miami. Archie and Addison remained in the mansion for some years after that, but death eventually came to claim them. And I don't know what happened to the house after they passed away, or what became of Addison's banana grove and his iguanas.

More about those two last items later.

I do know, however, where Saint Lazarus of the dancing cigar of Winthrop Avenue ended up. He's enjoying the sunshine in a nice neighborhood in Miami, somewhere around Southwest 135th Avenue. I can't be exact, but I know for certain that there isn't an elevated train anywhere near that house.

As to all the stuff that scared me, what can any of us say about the things that frightened us as a child? When do they stop being spooky, if ever? I can't say. I didn't get a chance to grow up with my scary things, so they remain scary, embedded as they are in childhood memories.

Occasionally, some things surface in dreams. Things I have every right to be scared of. But sometimes good things surface too. Things that heal.

Since I already had the nerve to tell you that the Evil One himself ambushed me in a dream, I should also tell you that my dad, Louis XVI, visited me regularly for a while. It's been about eight years since he's come around, but maybe that's because his soul is now at rest. His last visit was very sweet and very much in character.

In my dream, I'm asleep. All of a sudden, there he is. He shows up to tell me, while I'm sleeping, that he's finally at peace, that everything's all right. He embraces me and tells me that he understands and forgives me for every bad thought I've ever had and ever will have about him. He tells me that nothing should frighten me. Grace abounds, goodness prevails. He tells me pain is an illusion, ultimately, a little puff of smoke. He tells me that those spears that impale us and we actually see sticking out of our chests sometimes, those black iron harpoons that pierce our hearts and stay there till we die, and take years and years of practice to ignore, are really gifts of the Holy Spirit, one and the same with tongues of flame. Even those launched by love gone wrong, love unreturned, love thwarted, love unfulfilled, love thrown away.

In my dream I catch on to the fact that I'm asleep and missing out on my father's visit. He's here. At last, he's here, with me. I haven't seen him for so long, since that day at the airport. I've missed him so and cursed him so. And he's here, embracing me, finally, preaching redemption and healing, not reincarnation. But I'm asleep. Why can't I wake up? This is as good as it can ever get.

So as I struggle to awaken in my dream, I plead with Louis XVI, “No, no, not in a dream. Don't do this in a dream. Don't do this to me. Show up while I'm awake.”

“Ven cuando yo esté despierto,”
I plead, in Spanish.

“Estás despierto, hijo. Más despierto que nunca,”
he says, and then he vanishes.

“You're awake, son. More awake than ever.”

And I was, damn it.

T
hirteen is a volatile number. Schizoid, highly charged, unstable, unpredictable.

If thirteen were a human being instead of a number, and it lived next door to you, what would you do? Could you live with the anxiety of not knowing how this neighbor might behave? Generous to a fault, this neighbor, capable of lending you lawn mowers with a full tank of gas, or murderous to the core, capable of skewering you with a fireplace poker and of sacrificing your children to Satan on your own kitchen table, slowly, with your dullest butter knife? Better to skirt thirteen, when possible, or to remove yourself from its presence.

If I can't avoid thirteen though, what then? Should I invoke the goddess Fortuna? Why not talk about luck? But not my own luck. No. That's like knocking on that unpredictable neighbor's door with an empty cup in my hand.

Better at this point, when speaking of luck and the lottery of existence, to reach back into the past. Better to deal with people and events that influenced me, but for which I bear no responsibility. And, after I make the briefest of appearances, exit quickly. Better to offer fragmentary sketches of luck, and odds, and improbable coincidences. Fragments of family history that mirror too much. Fragments of mirrors that hint at a carefully crafted plot.

Some of these fragments, I believe, have Fidel's face on them, mirrored endlessly.

Out of a very long list, I have chosen thirteen items. Thirteen, of course, to placate the ever-smoldering goddess. Do I have any choice, divine Fortuna?

1. One of my great-grandparents—the father of my father's mother—won the top prize in the Spanish lottery three times.
El Premio Gordo
. The Fat Prize, literally. Lucky man, I think. Family tradition has it that someone tried to hack him to pieces with a machete for the money.

2. One of my great-great-grandmothers was chased out of Mexico in 1820, during the Mexican Revolution, and she and her family fled to Cuba on a boat. This boat apparently drifted aimlessly in the turquoise sea for a while, and they were all forced to drink their own urine. They lost everything they owned, too, which was a lot. According to my dad, whose facts can't really be trusted, she and her family, the Butrón-Múgicas, owned practically the entire city of Guanajuato. On some days, my dad said it was the whole state of Guanajuato. Unlucky woman. She won
El Premio Flaco,
the Thin Prize.

I had to hear this story endlessly as a child, along with that of Louis XVI and the guillotine. I'll spare you the details of what they ate on the boat, along with their urine cocktails.

3. After arriving in Cuba, Great-great-Grandma Múgica, now bereft of her fortune and much skinnier, married a Spanish army officer named Nieto who had fought against the Mexicans for ten long years, only to lose the war. As a reward for his efforts, futile though they were, and possibly for his wounds, Captain Tomás Nieto was given some land in Cuba. So he gave up whatever waited for him back in Spain, married the thin woman who used to own Guanajuato, and the two of them raised a whole new batch of army officers, who were trained to ensure that Spain wouldn't lose Cuba too.

Spain lost Cuba anyway. And Guanajuato remained in the hands of others.

But I had another ancestor who had already beaten the Múgicas to the finish line in the lose-everything sweepstakes by three centuries.

4. There's a very good chance that the original Nieto, Alvaro, the first for whom there are written records, was a Jew. Or at least the son of a Jew, forcibly converted into a Christian. Alvaro Nieto packed his bags and fled from Albuquerque, in hot, dry Extremadura, Spain, to seek a new life and a new identity in cool, green Galicia. Many converted Jews had to do this back in 1500, to escape prosecution for practicing Jewish rituals in their homes. Many of them fled to other places, and pretended not to be Jews, or the children of Jews. Many of them had all of their property confiscated by the Inquisition, or lost it, before fleeing.

Why do I suspect that Alvaro Nieto was a Jew, or the son of a Jew? Funny thing. We never ate pork at our house. Never ate clams, or lobster, or crabs. And it had been that way for generations. Cubans love pork and all that other stuff we never ate. It was unnatural for Cubans to observe Jewish dietary laws, especially without knowing why.

But that's not all. Another ancestor also lost everything for the sake of his faith.

5. On my mother's side of the family, one of my great-great-great-great-grandparents was chased out of Ireland in 1649 by Oliver Cromwell and his English Puritan army. Ultra-great-Grandad Francis Eire and his Irish family fled to Spain, leaving everything they owned behind, so they could remain Catholic. And family tradition has it they owned a whole lot. Unlucky, I guess. But his son was lucky. He fell in love with a woman in Galicia whose family owned a lot of property and married her. Luck of the Irish?

Much of her property remained in my family's hands until my grandfather came along and fell in love with the wrong girl. Not wrong for him, mind you, only for his parents.

6. My mother's father and mother left Spain in 1920 because their parents didn't want them to get married. They eloped. Got on a ship, and crossed the ocean to Cuba. My grandfather left behind everything he owned and everything he hoped to inherit—which was a lot—just so he could marry the girl of his dreams. Lucky, lucky man, at least when it came to love. So lucky, he lived with that girl, Josefa, for fifty-eight years, and they had three lovely children. Yes, of course, it was a lot that he gave up back in Galicia. I know this because I went there and saw it for myself. Everyone kept pointing out to me what would have belonged to my grandfather.
“Sabéis, esto debería ser vuestro.”
You know, this ought to belong to you, they said. Orchards. Vineyards. Meadows. Houses. Stuff. Now, it all belongs to other relatives. One of them showed me a trunk full of fine china and silverware, tucked away in an attic, and said, “I shouldn't let you see this: it was supposed to go to your grandfather.”

This same grandfather started to make his way in Cuba, but his house burned to the ground and his oldest daughter came down with polio. There was no insurance to cover either tragedy. He started all over again, and when the banks failed in 1929, he lost all his money once more. So he started over again, working as a truck driver. One day, shortly before I was born, he bought a lottery ticket, and it turned out to be the winning number.
El Premio Gordo
. The Fat Prize. But that very same night, right after he learned he was a wealthy man, his house burned down again. And inside the house was the winning ticket, which was devoured by the flames. No ticket, no prize. Those were the rules of the Cuban lottery. He lost his house, his belongings, and the Fat Prize all in one night. So he started over again, driving his truck day after day, and saved enough money to buy a very nice house for his retirement years. And along came Fidel and Che Guevara, and one fine day Che seized all the money in the banks. And my grandfather lost all his savings in one day. Again. Lucky or not? I can't tell. He always seemed so happy. And he had nothing against lizards.

7. His name was Amador. In English this means “lover.”

8. My other grandfather, my father's father, was named Amado. “Loved one,” in English. What are the odds of having grandfathers named Lover and Loved One? A trillion to one? Probably much higher than that. Somewhere just short of infinity, I guess.

9. Amado, my father's father, met his wife, Lola, my grandmother, while watching Lola's house burn down. There she was, standing outside the house with her family, watching everything go up in smoke, and along came Amado, a previously unseen young neighbor, and they got to talking, and the next thing you know, they're getting married. Lucky pair.

By the way, the house they were watching burn down was the house owned by Lola's father, the man who had won the lottery Fat Prize in Spain three times, the man who was nearly murdered for money.

Amado chose not to follow a military career, like all of his male ancestors. He went to medical school for a while but dropped out because he didn't like the idea of having to find his own cadaver to dissect. (Back then, each medical student had to find their own cadaver, which meant that many of them stole corpses from cemeteries.) He finally ended up in the real estate business. He and Lola had four children, the youngest of whom was my dad.

Lola's sister, Uma, lived with them their entire married life. She was a musician and a very well-respected piano teacher. She never married. Family tradition has it that Uma had fallen in love with Amado the night of the fire, and had always remained in love with him. But he had fallen for her sister, and married her instead. Unlucky Uma. Was living under the same roof with her sister and the man she loved the seventh circle of hell, or could it have been just what she wanted, and a foretaste of heaven? Uma thought Amado was the funniest man in the world. Or at least in Havana. This is what she told my mother over and over again. No one was funnier than Amado, or nicer.

10. Amado is the only grandparent I never got to meet. Too bad. He died young, at the age of fifty-six. Killed by an envelope. Unlucky Amado. While licking an envelope, he nicked his tongue with its sharp edge. A small paper cut on the tongue. It was a tiny, ridiculous wound, but there were no antibiotics in 1927. His wound became infected and he died. Unlucky. Definitely. No doubt about it.

I never lick envelopes. And I yell at my children every time I see them do it, just like my father did to me. “Do you know my grandfather died from licking an envelope?”

They think I'm making it up.

Lola was widowed in her mid-fifties. She and Uma, and her unmarried daughter, Lucía, and my father, Antonio, moved to Miramar a few years after that. To a house on the very edge of civilization.

11. Then my dad met my mom. He met her through a psychic he used to visit regularly, a woman who claimed to have intimate connections with the spirit world. My mom and her family were not at all interested in psychic mediums or the spirit world, but they had a neighbor who knew someone who knew the medium, and somehow, in the weird way these things sometimes happen, my mom and dad were introduced to each other through her.

Louis XVI recognized Marie Antoinette the minute he laid eyes on her, and he began to court her furiously. She was not too interested at first. But slowly the persuasive woman was persuaded. Louis XVI wouldn't take no for an answer. This is what can happen when a man thinks he has met the woman who has been his soul mate for thousands and thousands of lifetimes.

He did outrageous things, such as stand outside her house with flowers in his hand for hours and hours. In the hot sun. In pouring rain. He used whatever intermediaries and advocates he could find. He sent letters. Presents. And he stood outside her door until she caved in. They started seeing each other, with chaperones of course, as was the Cuban custom, and before long, my mom fell in love with King Louis, in spite of the fact that she thought that all of this reincarnation stuff was utter nonsense. Non–Marie Antoinette she was to herself, Marie Antoinette to him. Non–Louis XVI he was to her, Louis XVI to himself. Dad was also twelve years older than Mom and not exactly the best-looking man in Havana. Whereas, if you had stood my mom next to Rita Hayworth in 1944, you would have been forced to say that Rita just didn't measure up. Although my mom did have one bad leg and Rita didn't. Still, in spite of every glaring difference between them, in spite of my mom's leg, and all the odds stacked against this pairing, my parents got married.

King Louis brought Marie Antoinette to live in that house in Miramar. Brought her there to share the house with his mother, his aunt, and his sister. The neighbors took bets on how long the marriage would last. No one bet on more than one year. And no one won.

12. Sometime in the 1930s, a Jewish refugee fleeing from the Nazis landed in Havana. He had been wise enough to see what was looming on the horizon and had managed to escape with his whole family and several valuable works of art. Strapped for cash in a strange tropical land, this refugee sold off the art piece by piece. Much to his dismay, most of the items sold for a fraction of their real value. Havana during the Depression was not a good place in which to market works of art. Unlucky refugee.

One day, while scouring antique shops in Havana, trying to find more objects with which to fill up that house into which he would bring my mother, Louis XVI found a portrait he immediately recognized. A thrilling find. It was none other than Empress Maria Theresa of Austria. The painting was a bargain. A steal, practically. The shop owner had bought it from another dealer, who had bought it from the Jewish refugee for a pittance and was selling it for not much more than he himself had paid for it. About one hundred pesos. Nobody wanted that portrait. Such a dour-looking woman. Maybe she cussed out all potential buyers, telepathically, scaring them away.

Louis XVI purchased the portrait gleefully and hung it in a place of honor. The portrait of his mother-in law.

Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, you see, was Marie Antoinette's mother.

Lucky Dad. Unlucky me.

Coño. Qué mierda.

What were the odds of a portrait of Empress Maria Theresa of Austria ending up in the hands of a man who claimed to have been her son-in-law in a former life? What were the odds that this strange man and the portrait would have crossed paths in Havana, of all places?